


and my fate has begun to change

by ovely



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Financial Issues, M/M, Piano, Reality, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-09-23 15:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 41,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9664250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ovely/pseuds/ovely
Summary: (now complete!) Dan has an inspiring piano teacher as a teenager and decides to dedicate his life to music. After he starts uploading piano videos to YouTube, he finds himself unintentionally becoming a popular YouTuber. Then he meets Phil, and slowly finds a life more like that of the Dan we know.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> strap yourselves in it's my first multi-chapter fic and I'm kind of hyped tbh. I spent nearly all day writing the first few chapters of this today, gotta love weekends

Dan Howell was thirteen, and he had a brilliant piano teacher.

You see, piano teachers can be scary old ladies with opinions about what you’re allowed to play, with an agenda to impress on you about what proper music is, with beliefs about the width of your fingers governing their faith in you as a performer. Or they can be inspiring people who understand that any music is good music, who teach you to listen to the tunes and the harmonies of your favourite songs and see how they relate to the usual piano repertoire, who let you really understand music, not just replicate it imperfectly and emotionlessly.

Dan was lucky, there was no doubt about that.

* * *

Dan Howell was sixteen, and he had varied interests, like most sixteen-year-olds: video games, and he loved watching videos on YouTube, and when he wasn’t doing one of those things or hanging out with friends or visiting his grandma he was usually playing the piano, on the old upright his parents had bought him as a surprise for his fourteenth birthday, or the battered baby grand in the school music room between lessons, or the keyboard in his room when it was past his brother’s bedtime but there was something, some point of harmony, that had to be worked out. Sometimes he listened to a CD, picking out chords with his left hand as he sipped from a glass of squash he held in his right; sometimes he messaged a friend on MSN with the keyboard on his knees and scrambled through a melody under the desk as he was complaining about homework or the kids in his class or whatever his parents weren’t letting him do that week. The piano had become a fifth limb, and Dan thought in music, he dreamt in music, it was his food day and night.

From the spiritual to the material, if I may: in a little over three years, Dan had made remarkable progress at his piano lessons, aided as much by his ability to play by ear as by the skills of his teacher. He had taken his grade two examination within a year of starting lessons, and now, at sixteen, was at grade six. His grandma, willingly if with a little difficulty, now paid for his lessons, and he repaid her by getting the certificates from his exams laminated and allowing her to display them in her living room and embarrass Dan with stories of his musical genius whenever her friends visited for tea and biscuits.

* * *

It was when he was about to take his grade seven exam that Dan had the idea to make videos of himself playing the piano. He had come across a few on YouTube, badly-lit kids stumbling through Mozart or faceless adults picking through cinema soundtracks, and in 2008, there still seemed room for a few more examples of the genre. YouTube had a little breathing space back then. Besides, Dan suspected that the internet would appreciate his arrangements of video game soundtracks more than his piano teacher did. His lessons, now, were mostly about working towards the grades. Grade seven now, in the spring of year twelve, grade eight in the autumn of year thirteen—it was tough, but he would be able to do it—and then he would have two terms free from thinking about piano exams, to concentrate on doing well in his A-levels.

Until now, the piano and YouTube had been two things Dan had mostly kept apart. Sure, he had seen those piano videos, but had never dug deeper and subscribed to their creators. He preferred things like communitychannel and Paperlilies. Funny videos, human videos. Weird videos, too. The thing about YouTube was that each user led you to the next in the community, and Dan’s subscription list had slowly grown without his even noticing, putting out tendrils and finding people like charlieissocoollike and kickthepj. One of his most recent discoveries was AmazingPhil, who made creative, surreal videos from his student bedroom.

All this was entertaining, and a different Dan might perhaps have wanted to be part of this small but global community. But part of him knew that if he was going to use YouTube for the piano, he had to leave this part of the site behind, and spend more time watching the music videos, getting to know their tropes and reaching out to their creators in order to establish his own online presence. Really, he wanted feedback on his arranging and his playing, and he wanted to give people the pleasant surprise of coming across piano arrangements of their favourite music, and if he didn’t lie to himself, he wanted a few people to acknowledge him and compliment his skills and hard work.

So Dan logged out of his YouTube channel where he was subscribed to the vloggers and the sketch makers, and created a new one. He took his little digital camera downstairs to the dining room where the piano was—that had been the only room in the house with enough space—and turned it on and rotated the stiff dial to video mode, and balanced the camera on the wing of the piano, and crouched down to look at the screen and check it was pointing at the keyboard, and pressed the shutter, steadying the camera with his other hand to ensure it remained in position; and then he removed his hands carefully from the camera, and tiptoed to the dining chair he used as a piano stool, and clambered onto it, and began to play.

Dan had played Tifa’s Theme a hundred times before, and yet he quickly discovered that playing for YouTube was something different. You see, when you play the piano on your own, or even for an audience of friends or family, or even for your teacher, who you know, not _personally_ , but well enough when you’ve seen them every week for four years, there’s a whole context there that guides their interpretation. Your parents know that you’re sixteen and that you’ve been playing the piano only half as long as you’ve been competing in, say, swimming galas, and they know you’ve never placed better than fourth in a swimming gala but you got distinction in grade two piano after less than a year of lessons, and they remember your piano teacher meeting them in the carpark behind Asda to hand over your certificate and saying “it’s a very encouraging report, he’s got real promise” while you sat in the back of the car playing Pokémon Sapphire. They’ve seen your excitement and genuine gratitude when they surprised you with your first proper piano, and they’ve heard you go from Piano Is Fun! to Mozart minuets to Bach inventions to Chopin nocturnes.

And your friends: they’ve never touched a piano in their lives, and you’re just a kid like them who does average schoolwork, but they know from rare treats that when you get behind a piano, you can do something they can’t. They remember the time your school music teacher decided you were going to play the piano in assembly, and they remember you being reluctant and embarrassed, but they also remember the sound you made when you got on with it and conjured up some piece of music that they hadn’t realised could come out of a kid. They remember when you stopped playing and bowed awkwardly and went back to take your place with the class, and how it took them several seconds to reconcile the person who had just sat up there and captivated everyone for a few minutes with the boy who was sitting next to them picking at the aglets on his shoelaces.

And your teacher, who has seen you progress faster than any other pupil, not held back by the necessary evils of scales and sight-reading and aural tests like the others, but doing just as well at those as at pieces you had practised for months. You see, a YouTube audience has none of this interpretative lens, none of this understanding that your piano playing is something to take notice of, and that even when you trip over a note, nothing about your musicality is diminished.

More importantly, perhaps, a live performance only happens once. A YouTube performance, already made tinny and unimpressive by the camera and by the viewer’s poor-quality computer speakers or earphones or whatever—let’s not forget, it’s 2008—is replayed over and over again, and every slip, every tiny falter, has not just one opportunity to be caught, but an infinity of opportunities to be heard and criticised by an audience who don’t know you and don’t know you’re playing an old Victorian upright in the corner of your parents’ dining room.

Dan had played Tifa’s Theme a hundred times before, probably at least fifty of them perfectly. And yet as soon as the camera was on, it was as if he had never played it before. This time, he was searching for every note, planning the placement of every chord in a way that he had never before had to consider. Knowing he could make it perfect, he could record the same thing again and again until it was absolutely right, was a blessing and a curse.

After two hours of recording, including one point halfway through where he had lost a near-perfect rendition because the camera had run out of space, and constant pauses for traffic and for his dad coming in from the shops and for a vocal flock of starlings that took a brief interest in his parents’ eucalyptus tree, he had one useable take of the two-minute piece. Still not quite perfect because there were two mistakes: a tiny falter from one note to the next two-thirds of the way through, which he could pass without noticing if he played the recording back while only half-listening and reading something else at the same time; and a wrong note near the beginning, which fitted with the harmony of the chord, so, so as to save on another couple of hours of recording and quell his growing desire to start punching the piano, could be admitted.

Several hours later, the first video was uploaded to pianodan, just in time for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dan's first recording experience is based on mine, back when I was 16 and decided to put a piano video on youtube: now deleted, fortunately. It really did take two hours, and halfway through a good take, my dad burst into the room and said “what's this racket”. sigh


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan's nascent YouTube career continues; his nascent law career hits a stumbling block.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All YouTube usernames in this chapter are invented. Doing so was my favourite and least favourite thing about writing this.

In two weeks, Tifa’s Theme gained as many views. Then, something must have happened—not that Dan could guess what—but the view count rose to two hundred in three days. It was, therefore, a moderate success. Nobody left a comment, but he received a few ratings: some five-star, others not. This, and the passage of time, was enough for Dan to deem the ordeal of recording a video an acceptable price to pay for continuing his nascent YouTube career.

It became less of an ordeal the more it happened, of course. Like climbing a mountain, or going into the office at a new job, or, I imagine, changing a baby’s nappy. Two hours of recording was soon down to one, and the destructive self-awareness that the camera brought with it decreased to a manageable level, such that Dan was sometimes able to forget he would shortly have to critically assess his every move: as a result, those moves became easier to make. Soon, he was on a two-week schedule, starting with more music from Final Fantasy VII, moving onto soundtracks from further video games, and eventually uploading recordings of the pieces he was practising for exams.

Two hundred remained a good view count for any of Dan’s videos, with some barely reaching fifty views. He gained six subscribers over these first few months, none of whom ever left comments on his videos, merely appreciating them silently. And Dan wasn’t in it for popularity—he never sought to become a YouTube star, at a time when that sort of person was gradually coming to the fore of the internet’s collective consciousness—but still, he wanted some kind of feedback, some reassurance that his piano playing was not only listened to but appreciated critically, that he wasn’t putting it out into a void as YouTube slowly filled with a growing number of disconnected recordings of mediocre piano performances from all over the world.

In nearly ten months of regular videos, Dan received a whole three comments. One on his very first upload, Tifa’s Theme:

**LogTheP** _beautiful :)_  
 **pianodan** _thanks! <3_

And two on one of his grade eight pieces, a prelude and fugue in A flat by Bach:

**schmitz4873** _I like this_  
 **pianodan** _thank youu_

**MisterSquiz** _turn the light on lol_  
 **pianodan** _haha_

Eventually, Dan realised that to receive constructive criticism, he would need to give it. Once he had this thought, it seemed so obvious. The detailed comments he saw on other piano videos were more often than not from people who had uploaded similar videos themselves. He would have to engage with the YouTube piano community—inasmuch as there was one—first, in order to get them to engage with him.

And so, on the 4th of February, 2009, he left his first comment on YouTube, on an arrangement of part of a soundtrack from the Lord of the Rings films:

**pianodan** _the tremolo towards the end makes this quite epic piece even more epic_

In the week after that, he gained two subscribers, which was, his geography A-level teacher would no doubt have reminded him, a 33% increase.

From this point Dan made a conscious effort to leave comments on more piano videos, and subscribe to more piano channels. In return, a trickle of comments began to appear on his own uploads, and his subscriber count began to increase modestly.

**SarahPlaysPiano** _Nice one Dan! I like the octaves at 2:43 ^_^_  
 **pianodan** _ty sarah!_

**aritmiefh1** _sounds a bit rushed towards the end_  
 **pianodan** _lol true i was trying to get it finished before my mum got home xD_

**milkybarkid236** _this is shit, no offence_

**JohannesBrahms** _This is really cool, and I like that modulation at the end_  
 **pianodan** _are you really johannes brahms o_O (thanks! <3)_

By the summer of 2009, Dan had nearly two hundred subscribers, around twenty of whom regularly commented on his videos. Approximately half these comments, in turn, went beyond the usual ‘great’/‘shit’ dichotomy, and offered tips on playing or arranging that were actually helpful, or pointed out specific parts of the videos the person enjoyed, or made suggestions for improving the parts they didn’t.

At last, Dan was part of a small but supportive YouTube community.

It was also in the summer of 2009, however, that offline events took an unexpected turn. You see, Dan had applied to university earlier that year, not long after his grade eight piano exam. Deciding on a subject to study had been difficult, but at some point Dan had somehow convinced himself that while music was a major part of his life—arguably, the most major part—it was something that should be kept apart from his academic activities, and as a result he had stayed away from the subject for A-level. Music wasn’t something Dan had ever particularly associated with school; his piano teacher operated privately, from home, and while the school was kind enough to house a baby grand piano in its music room, its musical focus was more on pop and rock bands, styles that Dan appreciated but had no particular interest in participating in. The piano was a solitary instrument, and he, in effect, was a solitary person.

Dan had felt that he should use his last two years of school wisely and study subjects that would relate directly to his planned university career. The stumbling block here was that at sixteen, this career had yet to take shape in Dan’s mind. His vague feeling of responsibility and adulthood when cogitating on his future academic pathway had somehow manifested itself as a belief that he should study something sufficiently worthwhile: how to assign a particular subject to this category was, however, something that eluded him.

Languages were out, Dan had decided, because he was awkward enough speaking in English, even without having to worry about saying everything in another language. Maths and science were definitely out, as they made absolutely no sense. Humanities were the most interesting field, finding out about what made people the way they were; within that, history was dull; English was a subject where Dan suspected you could make things up as you went along, which he considered a bit pointless at university level; geography was alarmingly scientific at times. That, it had seemed from his school’s A-level options, left law, which certainly sounded important, as well as impressive. In fact, the shorter the name of the subject, the more impressive it generally sounded.

Dan had thus decided to study law at university, not because of any love for the precise workings of the judiciary system, but because it made sense for him, a fairly clever person, to study something important and meaningful to society. He had accordingly chosen law for A-level, combined with a sprinkling of additional humanities subjects, and so it was in the summer of 2009 that he found himself awaiting his results in law, geography and psychology.

Something that Dan hadn’t realised about law was that being a fairly clever person wasn’t always enough to get him into a fairly good university. If he _had_ studied languages, or English, or geography, he wouldn’t have needed the top grades, and could probably have got away with not working as hard as he possibly could; in the event, studying law required not only a decent performance at challenging interviews, not all of which went as well as they might have done, but also the best A-level grades on offer. And while Dan tried, really tried, to concentrate on revising for his exams in the spring of 2009, the lure of other activities was often too hard to resist, whether it was spending time with friends, gaming, or the piano. And it was often the piano.

The result, as you may have guessed, was that Dan found himself without a place at the university he had envisaged attending, betrayed by his psychology grade. Applying through clearing, a hellhole of phone hotlines and spontaneous decisions, would have been possible, and would have secured Dan a place at a just-about decent university in time for the start of term. His law teacher, however, maintained that a just-about decent university would not do Dan’s intelligence justice. Confused by this praise in the midst of his disappointing exam results, intimidated by the prospect of phoning universities to ask if they had any spare places, Dan agreed to take a gap year, retake his psychology exam, and reapply to university for the coming year.

Ironically, it was this advice from Dan’s law teacher that set his departure from the subject in motion. In fact, two weeks later, after a chat with his piano teacher, he decided that he no longer wanted to study law at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan decides to apply to music college instead of a law degree, and shows his face on YouTube for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert joke about how slow-paced this is here. I anticipate Phil's appearance in chapter 7 or 8, jsyk.

After undertaking his grade eight piano exam in late 2008, and thus coming to the end of the piano grades, Dan had considered stopping piano lessons altogether in order to concentrate on his A-levels. But after several reminders from his teacher that progressing from the beginning to grade eight in less than five years was a sign of unusual talent in a teenager, he had been persuaded not only to continue with the lessons, but also to begin working on repertoire for the grandly-named Diploma of the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music. It would take longer to get the diploma repertoire to performance level than it had taken for his grade exams, and he wouldn’t be able to take the exam before his intended university start date in September 2009, but as there was no chance he would give up playing the piano after moving away, it wouldn’t have been too challenging to find a new piano teacher and continue working on the diploma pieces, and maybe take the exam in the first or second year of his law studies.

This plan, of course, had to change once Dan’s unanticipated gap year began. A benefit of this was that he would be able to continue his lessons with the same teacher for another year. It now made sense to aim to take the diploma in the summer of 2010, before heading to university for real. That left a year to work on the diploma repertoire, in between studying for his psychology retake and undertaking a couple of law internships that he was looking into.

It was five o’ clock on a Tuesday evening: Dan’s regular piano lesson slot. Early September. The long shadows of trees fell about outside his teacher’s music room. Dan and his teacher were discussing his new situation, and the plan for the coming year.

“So you’re retaking your psychology exam?” his teacher asked.

“Yep, in February,” said Dan. “And I get the result in March, so I can decide on a uni after that and it’ll all be confirmed.”

“Will we need to take things slower in the run-up to your exam, then? I suppose you’ll have revision to do in January?”

Dan shrugged. “Well, we didn’t really hold back in the spring, and I was doing four subjects then. I think we should just go for it.”

“Well, we’ll see how it’s going in a couple of months, then,” said his teacher. “And if you’re on track, which you should be, we can enter you for the exam session in August. Don’t take it lightly, though. It’s a lot more advanced than your grade exams; they’re looking for a much more professional kind of playing. Which you’re definitely on the way to.”

Dan ran a finger over the keyboard and ducked his head to acknowledge the compliment, as his teacher continued.

“You’re quite young to be taking the exam, see. Well, I suppose it’s often taken at the end of the first year of music college, so that would fit with your age. But you won’t be spending the year getting a rounded conservatoire education, of course.”

Dan frowned. “What would I be getting in a conservatoire education, then? Apart from what we do in lessons?”

“Well, general music theory, which you’re fine with, of course, but more advanced, see … courses on performance skills, probably, and you’d probably be encouraged to take up a second instrument, so you could play in ensembles and things. And then you’d learn a bit about the history of music—not as much as you’d get studying music at a university, but just to give some context—see, it’s all about improving your general performance technique. So the core component would really be what we’re doing in our lessons, but with lots of extra stuff.” The teacher smirked. “Fancy it?”

Dan laughed. “It doesn’t sound so bad, I guess,” he said.

There was a pause.

“Well, in that case, maybe you should audition.”

“Um, there’s not much point. I’m doing law.”

“You don’t have to do law now, do you? Sounds like your options are wide open, if you want them to be.”

“Well, not really,” said Dan quickly, “cos I did my A-levels for law, and it would seem a bit of a waste of two years, three years now—wouldn’t I need A-level music for music college? I didn’t really see music as an academic thing, see.”

“Ah, but college isn’t an academic thing, if you don’t want it to be. They don’t even care about your A-levels, for the most part. Just do a good audition and you’re in. You can apply to colleges and universities if you want, and then pick where you’re going once you know which ones would take you and you’ve got your psychology result. I mean, you don’t have to decide right now, but if you’re even slightly considering college, it would be a good idea to apply. Are you really enthusiastic about law?”

It was meant as a genuine question, and Dan laughed desperately in reply.

“Not at all,” he said, “but you know, I thought it would make sense to do something academic: like, I’m pretty good at school stuff, I thought I should do something that actually had some concrete use in the world.”

“You’re _pretty good_ at music, Dan. I keep telling you. And you can’t tell me that doesn’t have any use.”

“No, but you know what I mean—”

“I do know what you mean, but you don’t have to do things just because they’re _useful_. Where would society be without entertainment? Life would be pretty miserable without music, right?”

“I never even considered music college,” said Dan morosely: his last, lame argument.

“Well, you can consider it now,” his teacher replied briskly, before gesturing towards the piano. “Let’s have your Bach, go on.”

And so it came to pass that during a slightly substandard rendering of a Bach prelude and fugue in F minor, Dan decided that he would possibly not go ahead with his psychology retake, and probably not reapply to university this year, and definitely audition for music college.

* * *

And here we must return to YouTube, because one afternoon towards the end of 2009, Dan checked his subscription box and found that another of the YouTube pianists had made a different sort of video.

“Hi,” said her voice, emerging from his subpar laptop speakers. “So, um, I saw this tag thing on someone else’s video, and I thought it would be good to do, like, a piano tag? So all the awesome pianists on YouTube can get to know each other a bit more. So, hi! My name is Chloe …”

Dan had been subscribed to chloekeys23 for over a year, but had never seen her face, nor heard her voice, which, it turned out, placed her somewhere in the vicinity of New Zealand. As the video rolled, she listed a number of mundane facts about herself, some piano-related, others not. It was engaging enough for Dan, and might have reminded him of other videos he had once been in the habit of watching, had he given the matter a little thought; but he didn’t.

The playhead drew near to the video’s final few seconds. “So,” Chloe was saying, “it would be really great if some of you out there could do this: leave a video response! I tag literally anyone who wants to, but especially these people who leave really awesome comments on my videos: kellythepiano, scrivster387, JohannesBrahms, and pianodan, thanks, bye!”

It would have seemed rude to resist an invitation.

That Friday, the sixteenth of October, Dan perched his laptop precariously atop a pile of books, and, doing his best to ignore the misleadingly dark tone its webcam seemed to have decided it was appropriate to cast over his skin, recorded his response.

“Hi,” he said, waving a hand by his head in a half-formed salute. “So, my name is Dan, nice to meet you. And this is my first video where I actually show my face, I guess. Um, Chloe, chloekeys23, tagged me in her piano tag, which looks cool. So I’m going to answer her questions.”

He peered at the sheet of questions he had copied down.

“Question one. Where are you from? Um, I am from England. South England, to be exact. It’s not very interesting. I have lived here all my life, and yes, I still live with my parents.

“Question two. When and why did you start playing the piano? I actually started when I was thirteen, so I have been playing the piano for just over five years now. I wanted to play the piano after I saw it in an episode of Arthur, which sounds a bit lame, but I saw Arthur playing Für Elise, and I really wanted to be able to play, so I saved up to get this keyboard—”

He pulled the keyboard into shot.

“And I saved some money for lessons. And luckily I had, I still have, a really inspiring teacher, so it all went great after that.

“Question three. Do you play the piano professionally, or have you taken exams? Yes! To the exams. I finished the grades a year ago, and I’m now working on my diploma pieces, which are _really hard_ ”—he lengthened the two words to emphasise just how hard—“but I’m hoping to take the exam next summer. And I’m applying to music college too, so hopefully I will be able to play professionally in the future, which would be super cool.

“Question four. What is your favourite type of music to play? Literally everything. You have no idea. Lots of the videos I put on here are video game soundtracks that I arrange, cos I think VGM is really cool. But I also love bands like Muse. And Radiohead. And I really like playing more standard-y piano music, especially Bach, and Chopin.

“Question five. The final question! When and why did you decide to make piano videos and put them on YouTube? Um, about a year and a half ago, I decided I should share some of my VGM arrangements, cos I hadn’t seen much like that on YouTube before. And I got to know some of you lovely people, so, thanks.” He pressed his thumbs and index fingers into a heart shape and raised his hands towards the camera. “So I tag everyone who watches my videos, and in particular, lori9244, SarahPlaysPiano, and LadyOnionFace. If you do a response to this video,” he considered for a moment, “I will love you forever. And I will see you soon!”

Editing videos was a foreign concept to Dan, and so he uploaded it in its entirety, hesitations and keyboard-dragging noises and all, doing his best to ignore the way his laptop microphone transformed his voice into something he felt to be reminiscent of a paedophile, or perhaps a polar bear.

* * *

**chloekeys23** _yay someone did the tag! <3_

**33RAM33** _nice to see your face at last Dan! :)_

**LadyOnionFace** _omg youre british! haha_

**JohannesBrahms** _Wait, you’re 18? And you’ve only been playing piano 5 years? Whaaat you’re so good_

**kazzaebron** _YOU ARE SO CUTE. please be single xD_

**quipwiz** _um i signed up for piano not ur face. delete this plz. lol jk_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Making up these usernames is still the worst and best thing. quipwiz u troll


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan diversifies his video content, and auditions for music college.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Nancy, from whom I gleaned the little I know about music college auditions, and to my parents' piano, particularly the A♭ that doesn't work.

Despite its lack of piano, Dan’s video was surprisingly popular, soon becoming one of his most watched; he even gained a sizeable number of subscribers over the ensuing days. People liked seeing his face, it seemed, and for some reason his self-consciously standard British accent apparently worked in his favour. Seeing the comments on his video, and seeing other people participating in the same tag and revealing tantalising snippets of information about their own lives, made Dan feel more closely connected with the small piano community in which he had carved his niche. Showing his face had been a one-off, however, and he was glad to get back into the routine of taking his camera downstairs to the dining room and balancing it on the side of the piano as he carefully filmed each piece.

Soon after the success of his tag video, however, he was persuaded to appear on camera once again.

This is how it happened. Dan had continued to upload his own arrangements of video game soundtracks, which he created using a particular method—we shall leave aside the details, as this is, in essence, a love story, not a how-to manual—and habitually included a phrase alluding to this method in the descriptions of the relevant videos. Transcribing the parts by ear would have been easily possible, but was time-consuming, and Dan was eager to make the process by which he arranged music transparent to his audience, out of a vague sense of decency.

On one such video, then, he came to receive the following comment:

**axetcoc86** _how do u get the parts from the midi file? & how do u decide how to arrange the piano version? I want to do stuff like this but i can’t see how u do it :(_

Dan began to type his response in a comment, and soon realised the limitations of medium and length made it particularly difficult to convey the message. And so, he duly came to realise that the natural way of replying would be by means of a video. Other piano channels, he knew, had videos where the user explained their creative process, or some point of technical precision; it was a fairly standard genre.

**pianodan** _might make a video explaining :D_  
         **axetcoc86** _that would be brill, thanx :D_  
 **desritala** _Yes Dan!_

* * *

On a Wednesday morning—having left school and decided not to pursue law internships or his psychology studies, Dan was no longer limited by the constraints of the working week—he got to work planning his new video. Parts would have to be explained at the piano; other parts would need screenshots of his computer screen; some of the more lengthy explanations, he decided, would do best with the camera pointing towards his face, if only to maintain interest with a bit of variety. This, of course, required a degree of video editing more advanced than his usual method, which was:

  1. Get a good take;
  2. Trim off the first part, where you’re turning the camera on;
  3. Trim off the last part, where you’re turning the camera off;
  4. Upload the video.



Accordingly, Dan spent the best part of the day researching and acquiring appropriate video-editing software, scripting the different parts of the video, and creating some example files to work from. It was certainly very different from his usual video creation process, where the emphasis was far more on the music than the format. As Dan worked, though, he discovered that this method of video making was rather enjoyable. Having complete control over something creative was a liberating feeling; it was like doing a group school project, back in the days before school had become solely focused on exams, but taking on every role at once rather than having to work with substandard, unreliable colleagues. All credit or blame was due to him.

By Thursday evening, Dan had finished the video, which came to just over five minutes of footage: about the same as his longer piano videos. His editing skills were raw and unremarkable, but the video conveyed the message he wished to get across, and so he uploaded it, with the following description:

_for axetcoc86 who asked about how I arrange music ^^_   
_Thankyou so much to everybody that subscribed over the last few weeks! It means alot!_   
_I hope you enjoy this video as editing it took AGES but maybe it’s a type of video I’ll do every now and then :]_   
_peace. xx_

* * *

Once again, reactions to the new video were pleasingly positive: especially so, once again, to the fact that Dan himself appeared. Somehow, without any particular training, Dan had acquired an onscreen persona that connected well with its audience: he was young, but knowledgeable, and yet not boastful about it; he was energetic, but not overbearing in the way that a Dan more acquainted with certain conventions of YouTube might have been; he was interesting without being unsettlingly unpredictable. All this afforded him an overwhelmingly favourable reaction.

A reaction which, as you may have guessed, combined with the enjoyable nature of video editing to convince Dan to alter the content of his channel slightly from this point onward. He continued making the fortnightly piano videos, but also filled in around half the weekends in between with videos where he explained a certain technical process, or a compositional device. On one or two occasions he uploaded half an hour of uncut footage from an ordinary practice session, half as a joke, and was amazed to see that even these videos garnered a few views.

The videos in this new category were consistently more popular than Dan’s piano-only videos, but these too received a boost in views and comments as his subscriber numbers steadily climbed. For this, Dan was grateful: not so much for the growth in subscribers, which had little tangible meaning and, if he thought about it too much, in fact slightly frightened him; but for the increased volume of feedback, some of it from much better pianists than him, and some from musicians he had not yet discovered, but was pleased to, because their channels exhibited some new musical device that he was able to assess and consider implementing into his own performance.

Dan’s most popular videos of all turned out to be those where he simply sat in front of the camera and, in a few takes, recorded a short monologue about some aspect of his past or present piano career. The first of these was the result of a comment that asked, in response to an off-hand remark he had made in a previous video, _so you’re on a gap year where you just play the piano? wtf_ : after considering a written response, Dan had once again decided it would be better to elaborate on his situation by means of a video. The positive response he received, and the further questions that arose, encouraged him to make more videos in this vein: recounting stories of performances he had given in the past, talking about the music he was particularly fascinated with in the present, even laying out tentative plans for his musical activities in the future.

* * *

That future was, of course, becoming increasingly close. In the spring of 2010, Dan was called to audition for music colleges. He had applied to five, and secured auditions at three, which his piano teacher assured him was encouraging. Nonetheless, it seemed to him an unusually high rate of failure at the first stage, and he began in some measure to regret having decided not to pursue his reapplication to study law. The rejections, his teacher assured him, would have been based on uncertainty about his having started his musical career so late: thirteen was an unusually advanced age for a would-be professional musician to first take up their instrument. Having been invited to audition at the three remaining conservatoires, his teacher insisted, he was now on a level playing field with those candidates who had begun their formal musical training ten years earlier than he had. Still, Dan was somewhat anxious about his imminent auditions. He had played the piano for live audiences before, of course: school concerts, and a few events his piano teacher had organised; but that had all been for the purposes of entertainment rather than assessment. Of course, he had taken six actual examinations on the piano (having skipped grades one and three), but even then, the operative question had been “will I pass with merit or with distinction”, rather than “will I have the next four years of my life sorted out, or do I have to live with my parents without a life plan for _another_ year”. Knowing he would be playing in front of a panel who would have the absolute say over not just his future with the piano, but his entire living situation, was quite concerning.

Having put aside the law application entirely did bring one benefit, however: Dan was able to dedicate as much of his time as he wanted to playing the piano. Before, when still at school, he had already been attached to a keyboard of some kind for significant portions of his free time. Now that the quantity of this free time had increased, so did Dan’s time at the piano. But, as much as music had become a second language to him at this point, this would never quite do the whole job of preparing Dan for his music college auditions; there was a gap there that he couldn’t cross with solo practice alone.

Let me explain. Imagine a similar situation where the focus is language. Imagine you live alone, or with housemates who happen never to become more than strangers. Imagine you have a lively and curious mind, and that you’re talking to yourself, in your head, all the time, and keeping yourself company perfectly adequately. But when the time comes to put this into practice on the outside, when you have a conversation with another person who says unpredictable things, and you know that what you say will directly construct the way they perceive you, it seems safer to stay silent. Imagine you can’t stay silent, though; that whatever judgement is being pronounced on you is the result of the quality of your speech. Where’s the wit and the easy charm that you can conjure up when you’re alone in your room? If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to bring them out of your head in a way that fits into the world around you. Otherwise, despite years of practice, something won’t connect right, and the version of yourself that emerges on the outside will give a false impression.

And so Dan went to his auditions, technically prepared, musically gifted, worried by how much of his future depended on three half-days of playing the piano and trying to answer questions intelligently and trying to convey the true version of himself to people he had never met before. He played well, but thousands of young adults played the piano well and many of them were far too sensible to waste their time applying to music college because of it. His usual fluency was marred by the unfamiliarity of the piano: not the fourth-hand upright at home where some of the notes sounded too long after he played them and the sound was muffled by the stacks of sheet music he kept on top, but some spotless, extravagant grand that had only emerged from its maker’s workshop a few months previously. It was marred by the fact that he had had to rise early and navigate an unfamiliar city in order to attend his audition. It was marred by the intimidating aura of his assessors, and the knowledge that they were to make a definite pronouncement on his future.

Still, Dan was accepted by one music college, and one acceptance was all he needed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan's subscriber count begins to increase dramatically.

“Hi guys,” said Dan comfortably; he had gained an ease on camera that had eluded him in his first two or three onscreen appearances. “I just thought I’d make a quick video. A bit of a life update, really. Some of you may know I’ve been going to big scary auditions for big scary music colleges recently, and the result is … I failed. Yes, I now officially have no direction in my life, I gave up on law to do music, and that didn’t work out either, so I guess we can say I’m going nowhere. So if you see a tramp walking around Reading in two years’ time searching for food in bins, come and say hi.”

Dan paused.

“No, I’m joking! I did actually manage to get into _one_ music college. Thank you super serious music gods for taking pity on me.” He pressed his hands together in a gesture of prayer and glanced skywards. “Yes, in September I will be starting a degree at the Royal Northern College of Music, specialising in piano. Obviously.”

“Having been through the _horrific_ experience of music college auditions,” Dan continued, lowering the speed and pitch of his voice on _horrific_ so as to emphasise just how _horrific_ it had been, “I actually thought I could give you a little sample of what it’s like, just in case you’re thinking of going to music college yourself.”

Most of his audience seemed to consist of fellow pianists, after all, judging by the comments he now regularly received. Still, the next segment of Dan’s video was nonetheless a gamble. Departing from his usual simple face-to-camera style, he had decided to dramatise his audition experiences, encouraged by a not insignificant amount of acting experience which he had acquired during his schooldays, but eventually put aside in favour of the piano when he was about fifteen. With his old school tie hung scruffily around his neck and a lopsided moustache scribbled above his mouth, he filmed the part of one of the college professors. Then, having relieved himself of the tie and given his face a scrub, he re-enacted his own part.

The result was as follows:

**Dan** Er, hello. I’m here for the audition.

**Professor Dan** Yes. Sit down.

**Dan** Nice to meet you, Professor.

**Professor Dan** Yes. Now, Daniel, your application says you play the piano.

**Dan** Er, yes.

**Professor Dan** Can you tell me: what is the key of Beethoven’s twenty-seventh sonata?

**Dan** Um …

**Professor Dan** I see.

[Cut back to **Dan**. He blinks, but says nothing.]

**Professor Dan** Well, you’d better get on with your performance then. Go on.

[ **Dan** is now seated at the piano. He closes his eyes with great solemnity, lifts his hands, ready to play, and half-presses the first chord of Brahms’ Intermezzo in A major. Cut to:]

**Professor Dan** Oh, I see. Well, that won’t do at all.

**Dan** [hands frozen above the keyboard] Hm?

**Professor Dan** Oh dear. I think we’ve heard enough of that one. Why don’t you play the Chopin?

[ **Dan** brings a single finger down to the piano, falters, and slips from one note to the next. He retracts his hand.]

**Dan** Can I start again?

**Professor Dan** If you must.

[Intertitle: _Two minutes later_ ]

[We see **Dan** , his arms pressed into the piano keys which resound cacophonously, his head buried in his hands. Over the ring of the piano, we hear dramatic sobbing, and Dan’s shoulders twitch irregularly.]

[Cut to **Professor Dan** , who raises his eyebrows, not in surprise but in weary disappointment.]

Dan’s retelling of his audition experience was, of course, an exaggeration. He _had_ been asked the key of a Beethoven sonata, but only to ascertain which he was referring to during a more extended conversation; he had also, at another audition, been told to stop during his performance of the Brahms, but, of course, not as soon as halfway through the first note—and stopping auditionees during their performance was standard practice at that particular college anyway, its tutors overworked and irritable. The mistake in the Chopin had in fact occurred in an ordinary lesson, and he and his teacher had laughed it off, although over the following week, Dan had several times found his life interrupted by the worry that he might commit the same error in a more important setting.

You may recall that I referred to Dan’s little skit as a ‘gamble’. Dramatic segments of this type were, of course, commonplace on YouTube in 2010, but this was certainly a departure from Dan’s usual style, and an unusual video for his subscribers, many of whom watched only music channels. They had made an allowance for his earlier spoken videos, which had been on musical topics anyway; and this, too, was on a musical topic, but was, overall, far less technical than the majority of its predecessors. Not only was it not about compositional or performance techniques, nor about the challenges of learning particular repertoire; but it also included a dramatic section, with actual costumes, however unambitious the latter.

Dan had, for the first time and entirely unwittingly, made a video that was not destined solely towards other pianists, but appealed to a general audience.

For a time, this general audience did not come. His fellow pianists were less ready to comment than they had been on his other videos, where there had been more musical substance to respond to; but while the number of comments remained low, Dan received a significant number of views and likes (the latter still a fairly new feature on YouTube: Dan’s first year and a bit of videos had been subject to a star rating system). Indeed, these views and likes were soon to surpass those of his other videos, for reasons unknown.

YouTube was by no means the focus of Dan’s life—that was the piano, if anything—and he wasn’t the kind of person to wake up and check his YouTube statistics first thing in the morning. It was in fact a few days before Dan realised his video had acquired not hundreds, but tens of thousands of views.

Further frantic research revealed that the video had for some reason been featured on YouTube’s front page, which seemed to have had several effects, ranging, in Dan’s mind, from least to most alarming:

  1. The view count on the video was beyond anything he could have imagined.
  2. The view count on many of his other videos, particularly his first upload, Tifa’s Theme, had likewise increased significantly.
  3. Several hundred comments on his videos, mostly this most recent one, awaited responses.
  4. While many of these comments referred to Dan’s piano playing, a significantly larger portion than before commented on his accent, or his appearance, or whatever the comment’s author had decided to extrapolate about his personality.
  5. Dan’s subscriber count had reached what was, to him, an unfathomable number. He refreshed the page as an experiment, and it increased by two.



And so, in the spring of 2010, without having drawn whiskers on his face, or befriended his favourite internet stars, or ascended gently into the sky on a cold October afternoon, Dan became a popular YouTuber.

* * *

Whether intentionally or not, Dan coped with the increased interest in his channel by resolutely uploading on the same schedule as he always had: fortnightly piano videos, near-fortnightly talking videos. His first foray into a less technical, more theatrical style was not, however, his last. While his videos remained exclusively on musical topics, they often took a more generalist angle than before.

It was from this generalist perspective that Dan committed an account of the subsequent months of his life to the internet. He recounted the final stages of practice for his diploma exam, emphasising the mental struggle of getting the repertoire perfect while not becoming too agitated to play them well. He uploaded a video filmed on the afternoon after the exam took place, his face still a little flushed and his voice still a little raspy after he had cried for a few minutes on the train home, physically and emotionally exhausted after giving the one performance that mattered of the pieces he had been focusing on for a year and a half. He recorded his receipt of the results of the exam, opening the letter on camera, his relief at a pass evident, followed by his slight disappointment at how low his mark was: only just over the boundary between a pass and a fail. To be Daniel James Howell, DipABRSM, fewer than six years after first touching a piano, was nonetheless a huge achievement, as many of his subscribers reminded him. In semi-ironic celebration, he started a twitter account, and began, tentatively, to interact with his audience outside YouTube.

And in September, Dan began recording videos that were no longer at the family home, but at his new, tiny room at the Royal Northern College of Music, in Manchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> manchester eh? sounds familiar


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan attends music college.

Do excuse me if we cover the next year of Dan’s life fairly rapidly. Moving away from the parental home and starting higher education are of course formative experiences, but unremarkable in Dan’s case, particularly for the purposes of the current narrative. Nonetheless, a word about music college to begin with.

Dan found the Royal Northern College of Music abounding in both clichés and surprises. The environment was certainly conducive to his development as a pianist: opportunities to play, not only as a soloist but as an accompanist, a rehearsal pianist, in chamber music, were thrown at him as soon as he first entered the place, it seemed. Walking the corridors was a constant unpredictable melody, like travelling the world and hearing the changes from one language to the next, except in this case it was the shift between instruments, from the full texture of a piano or a harp to the simple tune of a violin or an oboe or a hundred other instruments he couldn’t even recognise until he paused at the door of a room, glanced in, and recognised a bass clarinet, or a zither, or a crumhorn. Meanwhile, his lectures taught him to perceive music in a new way, to question the traditional assumptions about how one should play an instrument or assemble a particular group of sounds. All this nurtured his playing hugely, and he found a new love for the piano even before his old love for it had had the opportunity to grow stale and wither away.

Not everything was perfect, naturally. Dan’s living arrangements were uninspiring: for one, his room, a utilitarian brick cell in which there was little room to manoeuvre, particularly given the presence of an electric piano; part of a flat he shared with five other students, three of whom he never saw often enough to cultivate a real friendship with. The general student population, too, was hard to get used to. Dan was, just about, from a middle-class family, and had known boys at school who had appeared well-off enough not to have to ever worry about money, but there they had not seemed to constitute the vast majority of his peers. The kind of people who attended music college, he soon learnt, were in most cases those who had begun learning their instrument at an impossibly early age, had years of lessons and extra lessons funded by their parents, owned the best quality instruments, had been members of regional youth orchestras that demanded long drives to rehearsals and fees for residential weekends away; or they had been boarders at specialist music schools, studied with the most expensive teachers; and above all, they came from that particular background where it was expected that children would grow up playing a musical instrument and that parents would assist them in this endeavour by any means possible.

Of course, there were exceptions; Dan himself was one. But people who shared his particular cultural set of references were hard to find, especially to begin with, and so connections were hard to forge. Everyone worked hard, everyone was talented, but for some, that hard work and talent were the natural product of a certain upbringing; for others, they were accompanied by memories of constantly having to overcome obstacles. These people had parents who worked full-time but  still had to make sacrifices in order to afford instrumental lessons. They remembered the resulting urgent need to play well, to show it was worth the money, worth aspiring to a different culture. They remembered wondering whether certain faults in their playing could be overcome with practice, or if they were an insurmountable result of relying on a sub-standard instrument; the lack of musical expertise at their schools, meaning it was impossible to join ensembles or even to persuade teachers that it was worth taking an afternoon off in order to compete in a local music festival.

Enough of this digression. Music college was, by all accounts, an odd place, but let’s turn our attention to Dan’s online activities. Alongside his studies, YouTube had become more than a hobby for him. Revenue from his videos had allowed him to purchase cameras, microphones, editing software, and technical equipment that the Dan of a year previously wouldn’t even have heard of. While other students, finding the musical market saturated, got jobs in bars and supermarkets, or leafleting, or cleaning hotels, Dan made videos, and felt he had the better deal.

And yet the slow professionalisation of his YouTube output demanded some changes. As the videos where he sat and spoke directly to the camera had always been the most successful in terms of views, they gradually became more frequent. Dan still made plenty of piano videos, and kept his content to musical topics, but increasingly ensured that they were accessible to the layperson. A series on music theory for beginners enjoyed mild success, although he knew it would bore most of his longtime audience. But they were less and less visible in the comments on his videos, and in his Twitter interactions, which increasingly dealt with what he felt to be mundane details of his life rather than with music.

It remained enjoyable, and that was the main thing. After a couple of weeks in Manchester, Dan had had the idea to try filming outside the comfortable privacy of his own room or a soundproof practice room, and instead take a camera on his route to college and show some of the locations he routinely visited; sometimes even film parts of the events he attended, at risk of being thought odd by his fellow students. The somewhat irregular _Music College Vlog_ series that ensued became a staple of his YouTube channel, and he was gratified to find out that a small number of subscribers found it not only entertaining but genuinely helpful, given that they intended to apply for music college themselves.

As the year progressed, the balance of Dan’s life shifted. He always had been, and still was, a pianist first and foremost. Yet the exact nature of that career was something that could vary. In the autumn of 2010, when he began attending college, Dan was chiefly a music student, with YouTube a significant but secondary feature of his life. By the time the summer of 2011 began, it had somehow come to feel that these two disparate components of his activities had changed places. First-year exams and recitals felt less important than planning what he would put on the internet. YouTube felt alive and exciting in a way that studying the canon of classical music didn’t. Following a hundred years’ worth of students into largely mediocre performance careers felt far less inspiring than having complete control over what he produced, than not having to label himself as a performer exclusively, but instead having the freedom to compose and explain and comment as well. Socially, too, his worldwide network of supportive, largely pseudonymous friends seemed more natural than the awkward friendships he had tentatively formed in Manchester, often with people with whom he had nothing in common besides musical talent.

These were not the reasons that Dan dropped out of music college.

Dan didn’t reveal the reason that he dropped out of music college to his audience, and so I feel that I should not reveal it to you—for now. Instead, let’s concentrate on what he _did_ tell his viewers in the final part of _Music College Vlog #7: The End_ , sitting in front of one of the Steinway pianos in a practice room, his face lit irregularly by the early summer sun.

“So exams are over here,” Dan said, “which means it’s a chance for everyone to relax for a while. Well, not too long, cos they expect us to be practising all the time, obviously. Which is clearly what I’m doing now.”

He gestured towards the piano.

“The end of first year is kind of a big thing, I guess. Everyone’s moving out of halls and into houses together. I’ve actually got a flat, it’s further out of town, but it looks pretty great.”

He paused. (If you were to watch his video, you would notice a jump cut here.)

“So I guess people learn lots of things during first year, and what I’ve learnt is: music college is not for me.”

(Another jump cut.)

“I have matured hugely as a pianist, and got such an amazing education, that, um, I didn’t think would be possible before I came here. But I’ve also figured out that there’s no point staying for another three years. I’ve realised I don’t want to be a performer. I’d rather be a teacher, doing things like the music theory videos I do on YouTube. And I don’t need a degree for that, really. I’ve actually started giving lessons already, and if I concentrate on that as much as I can, I can get more students and do it full time. And I’ve also got some work playing in bars and events in the evenings. And the best thing about this is that I can dedicate more time to making videos for YouTube, which I love doing, and I’m so glad you all appreciate what I do. It means a lot.”

He paused, and then, his hands arranged in the familiar heart shape, raised them towards the camera. “Thank you!”

Dan rose from the piano stool, turned off the camera, packed it into his bag, and then walked out of the college for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mysterious eh? all will be revealed in chapter 8. (Also, Phil finally turns up in the next chapter. About time)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan attends a YouTube meetup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI PHIL

Dan was not lying when he claimed he would be able to subsist on giving lessons and occasionally providing background music in bars. Along with the money he was now making from his YouTube revenue, this was enough for him to rent an unassuming one-bedroom flat in a not too terrible part of Manchester, pay for his bills and food, and stretch to occasionally meeting a college friend over coffee.

Over the course of what would have been Dan’s second year of college, these coffee meetings became less and less frequent. He had never been particularly close to any of his fellow students: even his first-year flatmates had never really been anything more than acquaintances he happened to see especially often. Meeting them after he left college was frustrating. They would talk about their preparations for upcoming recitals and workshops, or the boredom of lectures and written assignments, and he would be unable and unwilling to relate. Or worse, they would say something like “you’re so lucky, not having to worry about this anymore,” and he knew it wouldn’t be worth trying to make them understand that he had plenty of other things to worry about, like council tax, and the best way to prepare that certain pupil for her upcoming exam, and whether this was really the way he would live out his days. Now that he lived in the real adult world, he realised just how trivial student life really was; and now he was away from college, he realised how far he was from his own measure of success. Last year, he had felt like he was going somewhere, even if it wasn’t where he wanted to go; this year, he was going nowhere.

At least, he would have been going nowhere, if it weren’t for YouTube. Now that nothing of particular interest was happening in Dan’s day-to-day life, he had moved away from vlog-style videos again, and was currently focusing on music theory lessons at various levels, as well as his usual piano playing videos. His subscriber count continued to climb steadily, calmly. The comments on his videos ranged from the superficial to the incisive, and he took time to respond to those who engaged with him on particular aspects of theory or of performance techniques. He exchanged words with his audience on Twitter, too, every day: that is, far more often than with his college friends, or with his schoolfriends, who had never quite understood his decision to pursue music as a career in the first place.

In the late spring of 2012, Dan checked his Twitter notifications to find the following tweet:

**mancsausage** _@pianodan are you going to the manchester youtube gathering this summer? :) would be cool to meet you_

Dan had in fact never heard of such an event. In truth, while YouTube users all over the world had begun to tentatively seek each other out in a physical setting, it had never really occurred to him that connections forged on YouTube could be replicated offline. YouTube seemed a thing unto itself: its brilliance was something that came from the internet, and surely, he thought, could only exist on the internet.

Nonetheless, he knew that if there was some real-life YouTube meetup in his own city, it more than made sense to attend. Social encounters of other kinds were sparse. He wasn’t interested in meeting the famous YouTubers—he wouldn’t have been able to name or recognise them anyway—but the prospect of meeting some of his own audience was definitely appealing. He knew a few of them lived in Manchester; by this point, he had even been spotted a couple of times in the city centre.

Dan googled the event. It was to be held in an exhibition centre: the spacious main hall would host stalls where video creators from all over the UK would be able to interact with their audiences, and, he learnt, sell their merchandise, which was a foreign concept he passed over without thinking about it too deeply. Other rooms would provide various activities for the delegates to take breaks from the hubbub of the main area. The whole thing seemed a pleasant enough way to spend a weekend.

On a warm June morning, therefore, he found himself in a queue populated mostly by teenage girls—it seemed—many of whom seemed to be wearing T-shirts with odd slogans on them. Dan was surprised by just how long the queue was: the event, he was beginning to realise, would be particularly well-attended.

Once he reached the front of the queue, paid the small entrance fee and stepped into the main hall, he was at a momentary loss for how to proceed. He wasn’t interested in visiting any of the stalls, being unacquainted with other YouTube channels outside the musical sphere. After a minute, he remembered Twitter.

**pianodan** _at the manchester youtube gathering standing awkwardly by the entrance! come say hi :]_

And within a few minutes, this had somehow actually worked. He was approached by a steady trickle of people, some wanting only to say hi and get a picture, others telling him he had inspired them to take up, or work harder at, their music lessons—which amazed him—still others willing to have in-depth conversations about music with him. Some of these interactions lasted ten seconds, others half an hour. What surprised him the most was that so many people knew who he was, and what kind of videos he made. Most of the attendees walked past him without stopping, of course, but a sizeable minority seemed to recognise him.

When the flow of visitors began to wane, Dan became aware that he was hungry, and checked the time on his phone. He was amazed to find that it was nearly three o’ clock. Still, that explained his hunger. Unaware of whether he could get food at the venue, he decided to flag down a pair of young men who happened to be passing.

“Hey,” said Dan, “you don’t know if there’s anywhere to get food here, do you?”

“Oh, pianodan!” said one of the men. “I didn’t know you were here. Did they not tell you where the food was?”

“We were actually just going there. I was just saying, I swear no other YouTubers actually eat,” said the second man, whose words were coloured by a mild local accent. He was almost as tall as Dan, which was rare, and his hair was the kind of black that could only be achieved by thorough applications of dye.

“Come on,” said the first man, whose hair was a more natural shade of brown, and Dan followed them into a corridor.

“What are your names?” he asked, to make conversation.

“Oh,” said the brown-haired man, looking momentarily confused before recovering. “I’m PJ. KickThePJ. And this is AmazingPhil.”

“Or just Phil,” said Phil.

Dan was surprised to hear the men introduce themselves by what he correctly assumed must be their YouTube channel names. For one thing, none of the conversations he had had earlier in the day had involved this. And what was more, he found it slightly odd that a person would so readily associate their own identity with their YouTube channel.

Before he had time to contemplate this further, they turned into a corridor and PJ led the way through a door with a sign taped onto it reading GREEN ROOM—NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS, into a small, well-lit room occupied by a handful of other young people.

“Oh, pianodan’s here!” said a voice.

“Hi,” said Dan noncommittally, slowly realising that he had found his way into a group of people who all seemed to know who he was, and most likely expected him to know who they were in return. The truth was, he didn’t.

But at least the promised food was here. Dan grabbed a slice of cold pizza from the central table and took one of the unoccupied seats, next to which a man and a woman were in conversation.

“Did you sell much out there?” she was asking.

“Yeah, not too bad,” he replied. “They’re a good crowd. Not as manic as London.”

“Manic can be a good thing,” she pointed out. “Makes them want to buy more.”

“I guess.” The man paused for a moment, and then looked towards Phil. “Hey, Phil! I hear you’re nearly at 300,000 now!”

“Yeah!” said Phil. “Not as many as you.”

“No, but you’re on the way up, mate!”

After a few more minutes of talk about subscriber counts and sales and metrics and managements, Dan was beginning to wish he could get out of there. He knew nothing about any of this, and didn’t want to; he made his videos to please his audience, and himself, not to reach a certain number of views or make a certain amount of money. At one point, the woman next to him turned and asked him when he expected to reach 200,000, to which he could think of no reply more articulate than “Oh … I don’t know.” After that, she lost interest in him.

Dan eventually made use of a lull in conversation to launch a “See you, guys” into the room and make a quick exit before anyone could respond. On his way out, mulling over whether he would return for the second day of the gathering, he was waylaid by a man whose lanyard announced that his name was Jake, and proclaimed him to be one of the event’s organisers.

“Hey,” Jake said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you’d be here.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Dan, “it was a bit of a last minute thing, I only booked a few days ago.”

“No, but we should have got you a stand. I don’t know why you were overlooked. I’ll fix something up for you for tomorrow, OK?”

“Right,” said Dan, who didn’t particularly know what he’d do with a stand, but supposed it might be nice not to have to stay on his feet for hours on end. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” said Jake, with a genuine smile. “See you in the morning.”

It looked like Dan _would_ have to come back tomorrow, then.

On his way home, he posted a tweet.

**pianodan** _it was great to meet so many of you in manchester today! i will be back at the gathering tomorrow, come find me_  
 **artrozor** _@pianodan ooh yay Dan :) i couldn’t make it today but will see u tomorrow_  
 **lizzie97** _@pianodan i will be there!!_  
 **xphilxpjx** _@pianodan omg @snokoplasmluvr he’s there tomorrow too, we have to go_

It was strange, he reflected, to step out of Manchester city centre, where he was very occasionally recognised by his audience, and into a venue where so many people knew who he was—or rather, knew what his YouTube channel was. Stranger still that he knew none of them, nor this whole culture that they seemed to be involved with. To him, even talking about YouTube offline seemed embarrassing and unnatural. But, he concluded, he would reserve judgement on it, at least until the following evening.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan attends the second day of the YouTube gathering. It goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter made me sad.

Given that it was a Sunday, it was far earlier than Dan would have liked. A few months earlier, he had nearly taken a job playing the organ at a local church before deciding the tiny wage wasn’t worth having to get up at seven in time to walk in for the morning service. But now, here he was, for the second day in a row, queueing to get into a YouTube gathering.

This time, however, he didn’t have to wait for long, as the same Jake who had spoken to him on his way out the day before happened to noticed him as he passed by.

“Oh, Dan!” he said. “What are you doing here? You don’t have to queue. Come straight in,” and he led him past the line, still composed mostly of teenage girls with odd slogans on their T-shirts, and into the hall.

“Now,” Jake continued as they made their way past the tables, “we actually managed to fix up something a bit special for you. It turned out there was a piano in one of the storage rooms at the back of the hall, and the venue staff said it would be OK for us to use it. So, if you don’t mind, we’ve put you in one of the back corners, and you’ll be able to play for anyone who wants to hear you.”

By this point, they had reached the corner in question, where a distastefully shiny upright piano stood, a few chairs arranged haphazardly around it. “Ta-dah!” said Jake, and gestured towards the set-up.

Dan was taken rather by surprise. He would rather have had some notice, for various reasons, but that was clearly wishful thinking on this particular occasion. “Well, thanks,” he managed in reply.

“No problem,” Jake beamed. “Listen, I’ve got to get back and sort the queue out, but let me know if you need anything. We’re getting pizza in again at twelve. Enjoy!” And he was off.

Dan took his seat at the piano, which seemed the natural thing to do. The hall was starting to fill with the buzz of conversation as the first attendees seeped in. He let his fingers rest on the keyboard for a moment, and then began playing softly, at a volume that would only be heard by whoever happened to draw fairly close to him. He could see the reflection of the growing crowds in the piano’s absurdly shiny surface, and kept his eyes on their unpredictable movements across the hall. A few minutes in, he noticed a boy coming towards him, and let his playing falter, turning away from the piano to greet him.

So it went on for the first hours of the day. Somebody, or a handful of people, would approach Dan. He would see their reflection in the piano, and turn to greet them, let them know they were welcome to interrupt his playing, which was, after all, only mindless improvisation. Then he would talk to them, and if they asked, demonstrate some motif or technique to them on the piano. It was all perfectly manageable.

Then, a girl asked if he could play Moonlight Sonata.

The first movement of Moonlight Sonata—which is all anybody wants to hear when they ask for Moonlight Sonata—is a staple of any pianist’s repertoire. Dan had played it, countless times, on the old upright at his parents’ house, on the electric piano in his university room to pass the time, on the baby grands in the college practice rooms to coax his emotions into the right form for playing some other slow, sad piece. It is, to be frank, an easy thing to play. But to play it well, it demands patience, and emotional stamina, and some degree, at least, of willingness to lose yourself in the music, and bend the simple tune into something meaningful, so as not to bore your audience or yourself.

Dan considered the request, running through an automatic, subconscious checklist. The repertoire, first. No technical challenge. Six minutes long. Needed some application of emotion. That could be done.

Second, the instrument. Decent enough, actually, despite the offputting gleam of its case. Newish, sufficiently responsive, no pedal issues. Having been playing it all morning, it now felt familiar to him.

Third, the audience. Most important. Just this one girl, for now, but who would join? He hadn’t gathered any crowds yet, Dan reminded himself. People approached him and listened, or, more often, they stayed away and didn’t hear. That was fine. It was fine.

So he accepted.

Dan began playing, quietly, as he had been before. As he began the iterations of the familiar dash-dot-dash motif with the fifth finger of his right hand, he gradually let himself give in to the music, not play with the same degree of vigilance he had been using previously. He dropped his gaze from the reflection of the hall behind him, let his head nod towards the keyboard, or stare at some spot on the wall behind the piano, as the music began to distract him from his surroundings. The hall faded away, until there was only the music he was creating, some unknown force letting his fingers fall in the right places, in the right ways. Dan let the volume of his playing increase with the undulations of the melody, letting the sound ring through the hall.

Then it began to fade back in. The shine of the piano, the concrete of the walls, the murmur of the crowds in the hall, and his audience, people standing around him, listening to him, concentrating on him. Dan was suddenly aware that he himself was producing this particular combination of sounds, that his every move was crucial. His fingers began to feel stiff. Their movements were automatic. And Dan knew the automaton was about to break, as it always did.

And then it happened. His surroundings began to fade away again, but this time it wasn’t the music that was left behind, but his breathing, and the beat of his heart, and the mechanical movements of his fingers, and the shaking in his legs, and the churning in his stomach, the shallow flutter in his chest—somewhere, the muffled sound of someone playing the piano—

It was him. He was playing.

And as soon as he realised that, he wasn’t playing any more. His hands, raised above the keyboard mid-move from one chord to the next, stayed fixed, and the unresolved harmony rang in the air, and Dan sat paralysed for a second before his brain told him: _Get out_.

He got out. Somehow.

Through the crowd, into a corridor, and into the men’s toilets, where the bright lights at once blinded him and reminded him who he was.

Dan gripped a sink. The room felt like it was upside down. He stared up towards the plughole, and forced himself to take deep breaths, counting in his mind, _one two three four five_ —

The noise of a door unlocking, and someone emerged from one of the cubicles behind him. A familiar black-haired man. Dan just about managed to place him. It was one of the green room YouTubers from yesterday, Phil something. “Amazing” Phil.

“Dan?” said Phil. “Are you OK?”

He hung back towards the cubicles, not wanting to further discomfort the man in front of him, who was clinging to the sink, his posture stiff, his head bowed.

“Can I help?” asked Phil.

As he did so, the door burst open, and several people attempted to enter the room, their faces a mixture of concern and curiosity. Phil took one look at them, and understood.

“It’s fine,” he said firmly, blocking the doorway to prevent the small crowd coming in. “All under control.”

“Does he need anything?” said the apparently self-appointed leader of the intruders, who happened to be Jake.

“No, I think—” Phil glanced back towards Dan, and then stepped out of the room briefly, pulling the door closed behind him and lowering his voice. “He just needs space. Just go back into the hall and I’ll let you know if you can do anything. But we’ll be fine here.”

“OK,” said Jake complacently. “Good man, Phil. Come on, guys, let’s go back in.”

Phil watched them leave in trepidation. He had somehow convinced Jake that he would be able to handle this situation, whatever it was. In fact, Phil himself didn’t know whether that was true. Even his presence of mind in dismissing Jake and his acolytes had seemed unusual—if he thought about it, it pleasantly surprised him. He eventually, however, decided that congratulating himself on his crisis handling abilities could wait, and re-entered the bathroom.

Dan’s breathing had slowed a little, and he looked towards Phil as he came back into the room. What are the odds, he thought, that it would be a fucking YouTuber who has to see me like this. Then he realised that thinking this meant there was at least a part of him not consumed by something like _oh my god I’m dying_ or _I’m going to throw up_ or _why does this always happen_.

Phil surveyed his surroundings for inspiration, before heading into the closest cubicle and carefully lowering the toilet seat and lid. “Here,” he suggested. “Sit down. If you want,” he added.

Dan gradually released his grip on the sink and made his way into the cubicle. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“No problem,” said Phil, standing to one side of the cubicle in order to keep the entrance to the bathroom in sight. “Is there anything you need?”

“Just tell whoever comes in to fuck off,” Dan replied.

Phil grinned, although Dan wouldn’t have been able to see. “Sure.” He paused briefly. “You can talk to me, if you want.”

“Thanks,” said Dan, sounding reluctant, and Phil wasn’t sure he would take up the offer, but then he continued. “So you can see now, I’m a fraud.”

Phil waited for him to elaborate.

“I’m a shit pianist. Like, I can’t even play something simple in front of an audience without having a meltdown. Great work, Dan.” He laughed humourlessly. “I’ve fucked up my entire career, because I wanted to be a pianist and I _can’t_.”

“Your YouTube videos, though—” Phil began.

“Yeah,” Dan interrupted, “that’s not playing live, see. I can record videos as many times as I want, and if I fuck up it doesn’t matter, and there’s nobody watching me. That’s what it is. People _watching_ me. If I make a mistake, the whole thing’s ruined. So I get paranoid about it, and that makes it worse, and I can’t even get through Moonlight fucking Sonata.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Phil. “About your career. You can make YouTube your career. Your videos are really good.” He tried a different tack. “YouTube is _my_ job, and I just film myself talking about food and animals. I haven’t even got that many more subscribers than you—”

Dan cut him off. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He sounded less despondent now, which, Phil supposed, was one good thing. “Phil, I don’t give a shit about how many subscribers I’ve got. I’m not one of you YouTubers with your metrics and audience engagement and whatever the fuck else. I just make videos because it’s fun and cos I like talking to people on the internet. I don’t want to make it some corporate shit, sponsored challenges and bloody inane tag videos and watch-me-smear-chocolate-all-over-my-face-so-I-can-get-ten-million-subscribers. I want fucking _integrity_ , Phil.”

He strode out of the toilet cubicle toward the exit, casting a glance at Phil as he walked past, and murmuring a suddenly chastened “thanks, anyway”.

Phil was too surprised to reply.

* * *

Before continuing, it is probably time for a word about what exactly had happened to Dan that day, and on several occasions during his year at music college. Making piano videos for YouTube, he had learnt, was very different from playing to himself or to his teacher, and giving regular recitals as a fledgling concert pianist, as college had demanded of him, was a different ball game again. Something about the nature of his education there, and the need to adapt to living away from home for the first time, had induced a particular form of anxiety that manifested itself whenever he had to play in front of a sizable audience. With an examiner or two, or a teacher, the kind of listeners he had regularly played to throughout his pianistic career, he had no problem. With an audience, who saw him as a concert performer, he instead gradually became overwhelmed by a fear of not living up to their expectations, so much so that it developed into something crushing, that built up during his attempts at performing and then exploded halfway through a piece, leaving him first acutely aware of his actions, and then paralysed by that awareness. The first couple of times it had happened, he had moved on to planning his next performance, hoping that it was a one-off, but on each occasion, the fear of it occurring again would inevitably drag him down. And each time it did happen, it became more clear to him that it would happen again, next time.

This, of course, was the true reason that Dan left music college, after discussing his options with tutors and the in-house mental health support service. He took his written exams at the end of his first year, for the sake of completeness, and performed his recital repertoire decently in front of a pair of examiners, not inviting his friends and coursemates to attend in contravention of the norm. As for his career, this was now limited to giving lessons and working as an accompanist, or providing background music in settings where he safely knew his playing would never be the centre of attention. Fortunately, he enjoyed teaching, but it distressed him to think he had planned his education around a career that was now closed off to him.

* * *

On his walk home from the gathering, which he had managed to sneak away from via a back entrance and so avoid the ever-present Jake, Dan tweeted:

 **pianodan** _great to see you all in manc today! unfortunately was attacked by food poisoning & had to dash out in the middle of playing the piano :/_

It was an excuse he had used before, and tended to do the job as long as nobody noticed him repeating it too often. The nausea of imaginary hangovers, too, had been a frequent device during his time at college, and his peers had believed it, despite being a little surprised by Dan’s apparent inattention to his health on the nights before recital days.

Within a few minutes, concerned replies to the tweet had begun to appear.

 **arobase95** _@pianodan Ouch! Are you feeling better now?_  
**pianodan** _@arobase95 yes much better thanks! <3_

When he got back to his flat, which seemed strangely cold and dark for the time of year, he decided the best reaction to the day’s events would be to lie face down on the floor for a while.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Phil have a few tentative online interactions.

As Dan was about to get ready for bed that night, he had a final Twitter check and noticed that he had been both followed and mentioned by AmazingPhil.

 **AmazingPhil** _Had a great time at Manchester gathering today with some of my fave YouTubers! @kickthepj @Chris_Kendall_ @thetomska @coollike @pianodan etc_

If the day had gone differently, Dan might have been pleasantly surprised by this: being called a YouTuber was something he could take or leave, but to be mentioned among anyone’s favourites was gratifying, usually.

As it was, he felt a sting of annoyance. He and Phil had hardly spoken, and when they had, Dan had ended up shouting at Phil and storming out on him. It was almost as if Phil was trying to make up for something, and Dan certainly didn’t like that, because as soon as he started giving it any thought it was obvious that _he_ was the one who should be doing that sort of thing. Instead, he decided to convince himself he was annoyed because of his position as last on Phil’s list. He was clearly the afterthought. Phil, he decided, must have noticed he had a few characters to spare and identified Dan as one of the other attendees who actually made moderately popular videos. And yet, thinking that, he still felt selfish.

He followed Phil back, at least, which felt like a tiny step on the path to redemption, and went to bed, not bothering to pass his eye over the replies to Phil’s tweet.

 **lozkuzxx** _@AmazingPhil they’re my faves too! and you! <3_

 **Rawr3948** _@AmazingPhil I WAS THERE!!!! @pianodan is so cute irl omg_

 **snokoplasmluvr** _@AmazingPhil OMG GEMMA @xphilxpjx PHIL &DAN KNOW EACH OTHER ASDFGHJKL_

 **xphilxpjx** _@snokoplasmluvr OMG @AmazingPhil @pianodan PLZ COLLAB_

 **snokoplasmluvr** _@xphilxpjx @AmazingPhil @pianodan i ship it ngl_

* * *

Weeks passed. Dan continued his routine: teaching, practice, YouTube, evening events where he performed under the safe cover of chatter and chinking glassware and the focal point being elsewhere. Few things disrupted this pattern: one that did, however, was the arrival of an email one morning.

 _Hi Dan_ , it said,

_I’m writing to you on behalf of our company, TalentSwitch. TalentSwitch is a new company that represents up-and-coming YouTubers, helps them make industry connections and get sponsorship deals. We’ve noticed you’re a rising star on YouTube, and we think you’d fit in very well among our talents :)_

_To get a flavour of the partnerships we’ve created with other popular YouTubers, check out our website, www.talentswitch.co.uk, and if you like what you see, send an email my way and we can discuss how we could work with you!_

_Yours,_  
_Linda_

Dan briefly considered the possibility that this could be a spam email. He had never before imagined that business communications could contain smilies and exclamation marks; being solicited by some kind of YouTube management company, too, seemed alien. Dan’s experiences at the Manchester gathering had not sufficed to teach him how popular his output was within the context of the community of British YouTube creators and fans.

Having his YouTube channel professionally managed sounded like a hellish idea, but out of idle interest, Dan clicked the link to TalentSwitch’s website. Their portfolio was small, it seemed: five YouTubers were depicted on the front page, with links through to their channels. Dan clicked on one at random, and for an hour or so was invested in a procession of vlogs and makeup tutorials. Watching this type of content, for the first time in years, reminded him of his fleeting obsession with vloggers as a teenager, which, he concluded, couldn’t be considered a total waste of time, as it had inspired his own YouTube career. It seemed rather bland, though, especially given the growing number of people trying to make it big through vlogging, all creating this same sort of content. Trying to make a career out of it, even. And what was the reward, he thought, once you got to a hundred thousand subscribers? Sponsorship deals, where you had to shoehorn some product you had a tenuous knowledge of into your videos. Making the content the more vocal sections of your audience wanted, not the content you’d been making all along, the kind _you_ wanted to make yourself. Selling out, a loss of authenticity. Thinking about it made Dan uncomfortable.

Towards the end of the spate of TalentSwitch videos, Dan’s sidebar was beginning to suggest similar vlog-type content to him rather than being filled with the usual music-related material. His eye was caught by a thumbnail displaying a familiar pale face. Phil. The video was called THE CHANGE, and Dan remembered Phil having tweeted a link to it a couple of weeks ago. He had never thought to click it, of course.

On his occasion, however, Dan decided to investigate Phil’s content. He clicked the thumbnail.

“Hey guys!” said Phil, who appeared to be sitting on the floor in front of his bed, part of a kitchen visible through a doorway behind him. “So today I thought I’d talk to you about: _embarrassing moments_.” He stressed _embarrassing moments_ theatrically, absurdly.

Dan enjoyed watching this more than the last half hour of videos he had viewed. The editing and costume changes were understated and clever, the story was quirky, the brief use of music from Final Fantasy VII was a pleasant surprise. Once the video was over, at a little over four minutes, he decided to subscribe to Phil’s channel as a token of appreciation, before switching back to his email inbox and deleting the message from TalentSwitch.

* * *

Dan’s Twitter mentions had begun to take on a different character. Before, people had tweeted to him expecting him to reply: compliments on his videos, questions about music or about his life, and the like. Now, many of his own tweets received replies that seemed themselves impossible to reply to. His tweets became springboards for other conversations, where two people would somehow make a connection to an impenetrable inside joke, and carry on back and forth on the subject at length, all the while continuing to include Dan’s username in their tweets, as if they’d forgotten he was seeing them on his notification feed. Of course, as this happened more and more often, it in fact became less likely that he _would_ see the tweets, as scrolling through metres of irrelevant conversations made checking his mentions less appealing. Interacting with his audience was becoming more difficult.

It was only by chance, therefore, that he happened to notice the following tweet:

 **soso9732** _@pianodan ru comin to sitc next week?_

Dan, as you will have guessed, was unaware of the meaning of the four letters _sitc_ , and turned to Google, which kindly informed him it was referring to a major YouTube convention in London. He thought about it. The Manchester gathering, to begin with, had been quite pleasant. Meeting his audience in the flesh had been unimaginably rewarding. If he could avoid the YouTube crowd as much as possible this time, he would be able to spend more time interacting with the people who mattered. As for the other problem, he doubted that spare pianos were a mainstay of YouTube conventions, and if it came down to it, he would simply have to make an excuse and refuse to perform, which, towards the end of his year at music college, he had become accustomed to doing.

These thoughts turned out to have been a waste of time, however, when he googled train tickets to London and realised buying tickets for a journey in only a week’s time would have been a considerable financial setback. Having to travel down in the early morning and back on the same evening, the kind of journey he might have made if he were an important businessman, was not conducive to saving money.

Chastened, he replied to the tweet.

 **pianodan** _@soso9732 train to ldn is too expensive unfortunately! >_<_

Only a few minutes later, he received a direct message from Phil.

_Hey Dan! noticed you can’t get down on the train to sitc and I actually have a friend who’s giving me and some others a lift down from Manchester - room for you if you want it! if not, that’s totally okay_

Dan tried to ignore the conciliatory tone of the last part of the message: Phil clearly feared saying something that would anger him, after their last experience. _you live near manchester??_ he replied, delaying his decision on the lift to London.

_Yes :)_

_In the city actually_ , Phil appended seconds later.

Dan had noted Phil’s local accent when he’d met him, but had for some reason imagined that he was only in town briefly for the gathering. Something about success, which he considered Phil to have achieved, made people from the north move to London. Dan, on the other hand, had moved from fairly near London to the north, a reverse trajectory that, to him, was one of the many things that emblematised his lack of career prospects.

Another message from Phil popped up.

_we’re not going down for the first day or the outdoor meetup bit, just down & back on the saturday_

And now Dan had a decision to make. Was a few hours in a car full of YouTubers, listening to them discussing whatever corporate inanities they tended to talk about, worth it for another few hours making meaningful connections with people who had intelligent things to say about his videos, and were genuinely interested in what he did? He decided, after a moment’s reflection, that it was.

 _ok, that sounds great :)_ , he typed.

 _Awesome_ , was the instant reply, followed by _will let u know the details in a couple days_

Dan exited the conversation and composed another tweet.

 **pianodan** _@soso9732 actually scratch that, i’ll be there! :D_

Before sending it, however, he decided it would be charitable to mention his benevolent sponsor.

 **pianodan** _@sos9732 actually scratch that, i’ll be there! :D you can thank @AmazingPhil_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Phil travel to London for SITC.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to DJM (as is everything I do) for unexpectedly reminding me of the useful word ‘preclude’.

It was Saturday, the eighteenth of August, 2012, and the time was, by Dan’s estimation, too early for him to function. Nonetheless, he had succeeded in getting up, leaving his flat, and making it to the end of the road, where he had arranged to be collected by Phil and his friends for the journey to London.

Dan didn’t have to wait long for them to arrive. He was staring at his phone, debating with himself about whether to send a tweet in anticipation of the day’s events, when a small car drew up beside him, and Phil’s voice drifted through the wound-down window. “Hey, Dan!” it said.

“Hi,” said Dan, trying but failing to sound enthusiastic about the journey. He clambered into the car, which was cramped. Being a tall man in a small car was taxing at the best of times; being a tall man with four other tall men in a small car made him wonder whether the vehicle would withstand the trip.

As they drove out of Manchester, Dan introduced himself to Phil’s friends. Two of them, Sam and Ryan, were also attending the YouTube event; the third, Kevin, who occupied the front passenger seat, cheerfully informed Dan he had no interest in YouTube and was merely availing himself of a free lift down to London in advance of staying with a friend there for a few days. Dan concluded that it was because of Kevin’s presence that the five of them ended up not discussing YouTube at all beyond the initial introductions. The remaining four hours of the journey were spent talking about what bands they liked, embarrassing childhood stories, and animals—a subject Phil seemed oddly keen on bringing up—as well as commenting on the traffic and the landscape around them. They also played a few games to pass the time, until Sam, who was driving, banned the activity, claiming they were all making him laugh too much to concentrate on driving.

Dan would have hated to admit it to himself, but spending time with YouTubers, on this occasion, was quite pleasant. Phil’s offbeat approach to conversation was surprising, but in a good way, and Dan gradually became more comfortable being himself in the others’ company, telling a few of his own stories that made them roar with laughter.

Phil, for his part, was appreciating the chance to get to know Dan better. He had first come across his videos a little less than a year earlier, and despite his lack of interest in music other than a listener, had enjoyed the way Dan spoke about the piano with genuine passion, as well as well-judged humour. He was pleased, now, to see that over the course of the journey, Dan became more relaxed, and these aspects of his personality began to come through in his conversation with them. Dan’s videos, Phil had always thought, seemed very genuine, and it was nice to have this belief confirmed by the way Dan was talking to the four of them now.

After what seemed like far less than four hours, the landscape around them began to become increasingly busy, and London enveloped them without anyone really realising it. Kevin was dropped off in west London, as he requested, and Sam let the others out by the day’s venue before heading off in search of somewhere to park.

In the bustle of the entrance, Dan became separated from Phil and Ryan. Momentarily disheartened, he then remembered this was surely an advantage; he would be able to spend the day avoiding the YouTuber crowd and concentrate on what he had come to do, connecting with his audience. He headed for a less occupied space and took out his phone to alert his Twitter followers of his presence.

* * *

It was an enjoyable day. As had been the case in Manchester, enough members of Dan’s audience were present to provide a day’s worth of stimulating conversation, and the occasional selfie. There was additionally no sign of any unoccupied pianos, which was a blessing.

As the late afternoon came around, the crowds thinned. Dan decided to spend the remainder of the day allowing himself to be entertained by the live music on offer, relaxing in the knowledge that he had nothing to do with it. Several acts later, he noticed Phil approaching, and smiled at him in recognition.

“Oh, hi,” Dan said. “How’s it going?”

“Oh yeah, it’s good,” said Phil. “We were actually thinking of going to the pub, are you up for that? You don’t need to be getting back soon?”

It would, of course, have been mean-spirited of Dan to force the others to forego their pub trip when they had been kind enough to offer him the lift to London in the first place. “No, sounds good,” he said.

“Cool,” said Phil. “We’re leaving now, but you can join us later—”

“Now is good,” said Dan, and the two of them located Sam and Ryan and headed out of the venue.

The pub, only a few minutes away, was filled with YouTubers. Phil quickly became entangled in a gaggle of acquaintances, and Dan, Ryan and Sam, less well-known on the YouTube circuit, joined the edge of the group. After buying drinks, they ended up sitting around a large table in a corner. About fifteen people were there, but there seemed to be twenty conversations happening at once. Unlike the morning, some of them were about YouTube, but for some reason seemed more inclusive than the conversations on that topic that Dan had been privy to in Manchester two months earlier. People talked about the sense of community the website provided them with, how fantastic it was to meet subscribers in the flesh, the way YouTube forced them to evaluate how they saw the world and to engage critically with it; and Dan found himself agreeing. As the evening went on, he began to do so more vocally.

Once a few drinks had been drunk, there was no option other than for the general chaos of the occasion to escalate. Dan weaved his way in and out of conversations, depositing an opinion before turning to focus his attention on a different subject. He briefly joined in with a game of cards, and somebody’s drink was spilt on his sleeve, but it didn’t seem too much of a problem. Phil was less energetic, preferring to engage in low-voiced, in-depth conversation with the people sitting next to him.

At around eleven, after a bit of gentle prompting from Sam, whose status as driver had precluded him from drinking, the four of them resolved to leave. They said their goodbyes to the others, and Phil made a quick trip to the bathroom to exchange his contact lenses for glasses. When he emerged, convening with the others outside the door of the pub, Dan was surprised by his own reaction. It was probably the slight drink-induced fuzziness, he reasoned, but for some reason, seeing Phil in glasses made him feel somehow _fond_. To Dan’s knowledge, Phil had never appeared with his glasses on YouTube, and this revelation of something unseen by his online audience made him seem more like a real person. Dan felt like he was starting to know the genuine Phil Lester, not AmazingPhil from YouTube, and he felt pleased to have been allowed into his confidence, even if it was regarding something as simple as a pair of glasses.

On the way home, Phil fell asleep first. Dan glanced across the empty seat between them. Phil’s head was tilted back, his mouth slightly open, his face now and then briefly illuminated by each light they passed under. Dan smiled slightly at the sight of the professional YouTuber unguarded, in unseemly sleep in the back of a car. Sam and Ryan were chatting in lowered voices in the front, but the noises of the motorway made their conversation difficult for Dan to hear without concentrating particularly hard. In a short while, he fell asleep too.

Time passed. Somewhere near Birmingham, someone woke briefly, and could just about feel the comforting warmth of another man’s body leaning loosely against his. Or, perhaps, it was a dream.

When they made their final turn off the motorway, the shift in speed and direction made both Dan and Phil awake. They caught each other’s eye and grinned fleetingly in shared embarrassment.

“I’ll drop you off first, Dan,” said Sam. Dan thanked him, his voice low with the lingering haze of recent sleep, as Phil shifted restlessly in his seat, stiff from the hours of travel.

As they drew towards Dan’s flat, Phil began to realise he regretted having spoken to him so little in the pub. Now that the tension of their encounters in Manchester had dissipated, he felt less wary of Dan, and getting to know the man behind the music channel was just how he had imagined it would be. He enjoyed Dan’s company, he decided, and it was a shame that they would be parting now, still not knowing each other well enough to meet for the sake of meeting, a nascent friendship hindered in its development by the lack of upcoming YouTube events.

Eventually, an idea seized him, and the openness of the night egged him on, and he asked Dan, “You do piano lessons, right?”

“Yeah?” Dan replied.

“I, um, actually was thinking about learning.”

“Oh?” said Dan, and Phil was unsure whether the suspicion he detected in his tone was real or imagined. “Why now?”

“I actually just inherited a piano,” Phil invented. “It’s just sitting in my flat, see, and it seems a shame, not doing anything with it.”

“I see,” said Dan, more warmly. “Yeah, I can give you lessons if you want. First one’s free, like a consultation, you know. And I can come to your place, if that’s easier for you, or we can do them at mine.”

“Oh, I’ll come to you, no problem,” said Phil hurriedly, thinking about his non-existent piano.

“Great,” said Dan, as the car approached his street. “I’ll be in touch to arrange a time.”

As Dan said his goodbyes to Sam and Ryan, Phil tried not to think about his lie, assuaging his guilt with the thought that at least he had a further chance to develop a friendship with this young man he found, both in his videos and offline, to be so likeable.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan gives Phil his first piano lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter probably has as in-depth music talk as we’re going to get, but as it’s the very basics of piano playing, hopefully it’s not too impenetrable for non-musicians!
> 
> also, thanks for the wee influx of comments after the last chapter, I love hearing that people are enjoying this <3

Mid-twenties is an unusual age to begin piano lessons. Most of us start as children, usually pushed into it by parents or sponsored by grandparents; and many stop after a few years, when these debts to older generations subside. Adult beginners are fewer in number, but they exist, their diminished aptitude for learning new skills more than made up for by their genuine enthusiasm and maturity. Of course, they are usually in their sixties or beyond, newly freed from the demands of building a career or a family, or most often, both; with sudden free time and relative financial security, it seems natural to them to work on fulfilling the idle regrets of midlife.

Beginners in their twenties are rarer, and in Dan’s year of teaching the piano to a variety of characters, none of them had yet fallen into this category. He taught an acquaintance from college, who, as a woodwind player, found it difficult to attain the requisite keyboard skills and was too miserly to spend money on lessons from one of the teachers officially recommended by the institution; but she was, of course, by no means a beginner to musical performance. Apart from her, his pupils all fell into the post-sixty or under-sixteen groups. Teaching Phil, he knew, would be different.

Phil, too, was unsure what to expect from piano lessons. Watching Dan’s videos as a non-musician, he found it difficult to imagine how a skill of that sort could be transmitted from one person to another. Nonetheless, he turned up at Dan’s building, a townhouse converted into separate flats, at the arranged time, and texted him, _I’m here_.

_k_ , Dan replied instantly, and a minute later, he opened the door to Phil, face slightly flushed from jogging down the stairs from his second-floor flat. “Hi, come in,” he said.

Phil headed up the stairs behind Dan; if his legs had been any shorter, he would have trouble keeping to the same pace. “How are things?” he asked, halfway up, as a conversation starter.

“Oh, fine, yeah,” said Dan. The openness around Phil he had displayed in London had withered somewhat over the weeks since that occasion, encouraged to do so by their contact over the period having been so infrequent. Dan’s only thoughts of Phil had been prompted by his videos appearing on Dan’s YouTube subscription page, or his quirky, light-hearted tweets sitting innocuously between others on Dan’s Twitter timeline. And they had been from AmazingPhil, not the Phil Lester he had begun to get to know. Dan had been watching Phil’s videos as they were released, of course, but a six-centimetre-high two-dimensional version of the man was hard to map onto the six-foot-two reality. There were no jump cuts in reality, either.

They reached the top of the stairs, and headed into Dan’s flat. It was small, Phil noticed, smaller than his own, which itself usually felt too tiny to achieve very much in. A considerable portion of the room Dan had led him into was taken up by a piano, stacks of sheet music, a tripod and a small collection of additional filmmaking equipment. Dan gestured towards the piano stool.

“Right, have a seat,” he said.

“Thanks,” Phil replied, swinging himself onto the stool while Dan perched on the far less comfortable wooden chair by its side.

“Right, OK,” said Dan. He glanced at Phil briefly. “Um, have you ever played a piano before? Or any musical instrument?”

“Nope,” said Phil.

“Not even at school? I mean, you probably had music lessons for a few years at secondary school, right?”

“Oh, yeah.” Phil cast his mind back. “But that was more like, listen to this piece of music and write about how it makes you feel, or they’d get the kids who played instruments to perform and the rest of us would have to listen. I think I got to play a tambourine once or twice, but that’s about it.”

Dan smirked. “Better than nothing. OK, so, absolute basics, you probably know some of this already. Right hand side of the piano is the high notes,”—he stretched his hand out, past Phil, and pressed a few keys at random—“and left is the low notes.” He passed his hand quickly over some of the keys closer to him. “And down at your feet you’ve got the pedals, the one on the right is called the sustaining pedal, so it means the notes resound for longer than you hold them down. I’ll show you. Press it down, with your right foot—”

Phil obediently did so.

“Right, keep it pressed down,” said Dan, and he played a C major triad, moving his hand quickly away from the keyboard as the notes rang. “OK, hear that? Still going even though I’m not playing the chord anymore? Right, now let go of the pedal.”

Phil moved his foot back. The sound stopped.

“And if I do it without the pedal down—” Dan played the same chord, and this time it sounded only briefly.

“And the one on the other side,” Dan continued, “is the soft pedal, so that makes the sound kind of muffled. Try it with that one? Left foot.”

Phil moved his left foot onto the pedal, and Dan played the same triad again, holding it down this time. Now, it sounded like the piano was smothered in several layers of cotton wool.

“OK?” said Dan, and Phil nodded. “Right, let’s move up to the actual keys. So we st—” He was cut off as Phil interrupted him.

“What about the one in the middle?” He pointed back towards the pedalboard, where the untried third pedal sat intriguingly between its fellows.

“Oh,” said Dan seriously. “We don’t talk about the middle pedal.”

Phil waited for him to elaborate.

“My sister was killed in a pedal accident.”

Phil snorted, and Dan broke into a grin before continuing. “Nah, it’s just not used very often. Special effect pedal. It’s not that exciting, not really worth explaining.” He turned back towards the keyboard. “So. We usually start in the middle, cos the notes aren’t too high or too low. And we use the position of the black keys to tell us what part of the scale we’re in. I’ll, um, explain that later, but for now, you see the white keys can be divided into groups of three and four, alternating up the piano, like this—”

He reached out towards the keyboard again, drawing imaginary lines between the keys where no black key separated a pair of white ones, moving gradually towards the treble part of the piano until Phil replied, “OK, I see.”

“Right, so you want to find the group of three keys that’s just about right in the middle of the piano, that’s our starting point.”

Phil stared blankly at Dan for a second before realising Dan was encouraging him to locate the requisite part of the piano himself. He looked down, and after a short pause pointed at the group of keys in front of him. “This bit.”

“Yep,” said Dan. “Now, to start off with, you can put your thumb over the left one of those three keys, and then each of your fingers on the white keys to the right. Don’t press them down, just leave them there for a minute.”

Phil laid his hand flat on the keyboard, and Dan instinctively made a slight move towards it, ready to correct its posture, before drawing back. “OK, you want to raise your wrist up, so it’s a few centimetres above the piano,” he offered by way of alternative verbal explanation. “So your hand is kind of dropping onto it. Just your fingertips on the keys.” He reached out and let his own right hand fall into the same position, a couple of octaves to the left of where Phil’s was. Phil glanced across, and mimicked the posture of Dan’s hand with his own.

“That’s it,” said Dan approvingly. He thought for a moment. “Right, I’m going to press these keys one at a time, starting with my thumb and going up to my little finger, and then back down again. So if you give a number to each finger, starting with 1 for the thumb, I’d be pressing them in the order 1-2-3-4-5-4-3-2-1.” He waved each finger in the air as he called its number. “Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, so far,” said Phil.

“OK, so watch me first, and then you can try,” Dan said, and he carefully pressed each key in turn, moving from the C to the G and back, letting the scalic motif ring out confidently. Then he withdrew his hand from the piano, and looked towards Phil expectantly.

Phil did his best to copy Dan, although the even tone of his teacher’s rendition of the phrase seemed somehow to elude him. The first note, struck with the thumb, was too harsh, while the notes played by his fourth and fifth fingers faltered and faded away, and the steady rhythm fell apart as he worked his way back down to the C. He looked back at Dan uncertainly.

“Keep your wrist up,” said Dan, briefly distracted. Then he noticed the unsure look on Phil’s face. “No, that’s fine for a first attempt. We use our thumb and index fingers more in general, so they’re always stronger when you start, and it takes a bit of work to get the same sound out of all your fingers. Once you’ve been doing it for a while, you’ll start compensating naturally. Try it again.”

Phil did so, and it sounded slightly better already.

* * *

Over the remainder of the lesson, Dan worked on the strength of Phil’s fingers, calling out patterns of numbers and waiting for Phil to play the corresponding sequence, reminding him to maintain his posture and helping him achieve an even tone by reminding him when he was to apply more pressure with a particular finger. After a few iterations with just the right hand, Dan suggested that Phil add his left hand, and they worked on the same patterns in both hands, Phil playing equivalent notes an octave apart. After slow progress through these exercises, they reached the end of the half-hour slot.

“Right,” said Dan, “I want you to work on that over the week. Just a few minutes a day.”

“Oh, sure,” said Phil, suddenly remembering the problem he would face in obeying this instruction. He pushed it quickly to the back of his mind; he would see to his lack of a piano later. For the time being, he decided, he could practice these finger exercises on a table, or something.

“Same time next week?” Dan asked, with a smile.

“Yeah, great,” Phil replied. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” said Dan, standing to show Phil to the door. “Keep practising!” he called, as Phil stepped out onto the landing.

Once the door was shut, Phil frowned.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil’s lessons continue. He looks into buying a piano.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of this is just stuff about pianos, oops. There’ll be more D & P interaction in the next chapter, honest guv

In his second piano lesson, Phil paid Dan for a run of ten weekly sessions, as they had agreed. It was a lot of money to let go of all at once, and seemed still more when Phil allowed himself to meditate on the fact he still needed to acquire a piano, an ever-present guilt at the back of his mind. YouTube was a steady but small source of income for a Phil who had not yet formed a successful business partnership and found a joint brand to share with a flatmate, or a best friend, or a lover. Instead, he was on the books of one of the smaller YouTube management companies, and got by on a modest income, paying his rent and denying himself most opportunities for luxury. Piano lessons were an extravagance.

For Dan, Phil’s piano lessons were on the other hand a source of frustration. Teaching the piano, he found, was usually a rewarding profession, particularly when the pupil arrived convinced that they had no ounce of musicality in their body. All it took, usually, was a few weeks, and they would begin to show promise. After a few more, they would start recognising that talent themselves, and that was the crucial step. Everyone is musical in some way, and it was Dan’s job to find that in a person, and bring it out, and encourage them to acknowledge it.

Teaching Phil, though, seemed to get nowhere. In the second lesson Dan planned to introduce the basics of musical notation, as was his normal practice for adult beginners. He was set back, however, by the fact that once again, Phil’s attempts at pressing the piano keys were stilted to begin with, and they had to run through a few of the previous week’s exercises in order to retrieve the right kind of touch on the keyboard. The time left for explaining how sheet music works was consequently much sparer than Dan had anticipated. Nevertheless, he rushed through some of the fundamental components of the staff, explaining the difference between the treble and bass clefs, and introducing the time signature and a couple of note values. He sent Phil away with the simplest four-bar tune he could conjure up, scribbled onto a sheet of manuscript paper, and encouraged him, again, to practise.

Over the following weeks, Phil made just as little progress. Each time, he seemed to need to accustom himself to the weight of the keys once again, and sometimes even appeared to have forgotten where he should position his hands on the keyboard. He understood the written notation competently enough when Dan quizzed him on it, but had surprising difficulty translating this to music. It was as if he wasn’t practising, but Dan’s adult pupils always practised; after all, they were taking the lessons of their own volition, and what was more, paying for them. The thought that Phil might not have the facilities to practise never crossed Dan’s mind; after all, Phil had _told_ him he had a piano, and there seemed no reason for him to have lied.

So Dan continued to work on the same basic exercises with Phil, and gradually introduced him to additional conventions of sheet music: more complicated note values and time signatures, key signatures, dynamic markings. While he hoped that Phil would soon be able to deploy them in practice, he was beginning to wonder whether, for the first time, he had a pupil who was genuinely unmusical.

Meanwhile, Phil knew he had to get hold of a piano if he was to make any progress at all. A good place to start looking, he decided, was a video Dan had made a few months earlier called _Choosing Your Piano_.

“Now, I warn you,” said the two-dimensional Dan, his voice issuing forth tinnily from Phil’s laptop speakers, “pianos aren’t cheap. They’re actually one of the most expensive instruments, after things like harps and double basses. But the upside is, you can play more notes at a time, so who’s the real winner here.”

Phil smiled at Dan’s humour, having come to find its style comfortingly familiar.

“So the first thing you need to think about is: where is your piano going to live? If you live in a university room or a tiny flat—welcome to my life—you’re probably going to want one that actually fits without meaning you have to get rid of all your other possessions. So no massive grand pianos for us. Fortunately, electric ones are pretty good these days, and you can actually get electric pianos that sound better than lots of traditional ones. They’ve pretty much stopped making the old-style upright pianos, actually.”

Dan went on to explain the relative merits of stage pianos versus those with a built-in stand, and then changed topic again.

“One important piece of advice: don’t get a keyboard. If you are at all serious about playing the piano, a keyboard will get you approximately nowhere. Sure, they’re cheaper, but it is literally not worth it, I swear to God. You might be wondering what the actual difference between a piano and a keyboard is at this point. The most obvious thing is that a piano has 88 keys, and most keyboards have around sixty, seventy. Obviously that’s not usually a problem, but apart from that, there’s one major thing about keyboards that makes them unsuitable.” He raised a finger into the air. “Let me explain.”

The scene changed to Dan seated at his piano.

 “So when you play a note on a piano,” he continued, “it actually responds to how hard you press it. Simple.”

He demonstrated.

“On electric pianos, you get a volume control, but within that, you can still vary the volume depending on how you press the keys. On a keyboard, you only have a volume control. So, how hard you press the keys makes no difference, which is really bad for developing your technique. And as you know, we’re all about the technique here.

“Basically, keys on a keyboard have no weight. If you flip a keyboard upside down and look at the keys, you’ll see that they’re really thin. That has two effects: one, you can’t vary the dynamics, and two, the keys don’t respond to how you press them, so you end up with no knowledge of how heavy or light you should be playing. And before any of you say anything in the comments, yes, I know I started out on a keyboard, but fortunately I started having lessons and practising on real pianos before it damaged my technique too much. Also, I was literally thirteen and knew nothing about playing the piano, so come on. That’s why I’m giving _you_ advice, so you can avoid the mistakes _I_ made as a kid.

“There are three reasons that you might possibly want to get a keyboard. One: tuning other instruments. Which it’s probably cheaper to get a tuning fork for. Two: if you’re a composer and you want to hear how harmonies sound together, but you’re not actually going to be playing the piano otherwise. Three: if literally all you’re doing is putting music into some kind of composing or mixing software, and you’re wiring the keyboard up to a computer. Seriously, if you ever intend to actually play the piano, don’t get a keyboard.” As he said these last four words, they appeared one by one on the screen.

“So, with that out of the way, here’s my list of recommended pianos for all occasions.”

Phil positioned his finger over the trackpad, ready to pause the video and take notes. When Dan actually came to mentioning the price of the pianos he was suggesting, however, Phil was dismayed to find that they all cost at least several hundred pounds. He had expected that some would, of course, but hadn’t realised that finding a decent piano at a vaguely affordable price was apparently impossible. He sat through the minutes of piano recommendations with a growing feeling of dread.

“But, I hear you say: Dan, I have literally no money. How the hell am I supposed to get hold of a piano? Well, you have one last resort.”

Phil’s ears pricked up.

“Second-hand pianos. Not always in the best condition, definitely not great if you want to be a serious pianist, but miles better than keyboards and cheap enough to be worth the money. Look on the internet for second-hand pianos in your area, and if you’re feeling old-school, check the local paper. They sometimes even turn up in charity shops. Just make sure you try before you buy. You don’t need to be a concert pianist to know you shouldn’t be getting a piano where half the keys don’t make any sound. Also, they’re usually quite bulky uprights, so you’ve got to have enough room for one in your house.

“Either that, or convince an elderly neighbour or relative to let you play their piano and bring joy to their lives. Spot a piano on your street? Go and knock on their door and ask if you can use it to practise. Actually, that sounds like my idea of hell, but if it doesn’t to you, then why not.

“Well, happy piano hunting, I guess, and if you’ve got any questions, leave them in the comments.”

* * *

Over the next few days, Phil kept an eye on the online classifieds. Few pianos came up, and those that did, while cheaper than the instruments Dan had recommended, were still out of his price range for the time being, particularly when he had so recently paid for his lessons. One advert for a more affordable instrument gave only a phone number, no email address, and by the time Phil had worked up the courage to cold-call a stranger, he was informed that the piano had been sold. The man didn’t sound very friendly anyway, so, he thought, it was probably for the best.

Barring a loan from his parents, who would naturally be too suspicious about Phil’s sudden interest in learning a musical instrument for it to be worth asking, it seemed that the only option remaining was to save up. It would take a couple of months, by Phil’s reckoning, but he was confident of being able to put aside enough to eventually be able to buy one of the cheaper second-hand uprights. In the meantime, he could work on the theoretical side of things.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil has his tenth piano lesson.

December came to Manchester, and with it, the usual cold weather, an infestation of tacky Christmas decorations, and Phil’s tenth piano lesson, the last in the run that he had paid Dan for. Musically, Phil had still not advanced particularly far beyond his first attempts at playing the piano, the reason for this being clear to him, to us, but still not to Dan, who had resigned himself to the belief that Phil was the first person he had come across who really lacked an ability to learn any form of musical skill.

Dan was not about to tell Phil this, of course; besides the fact that it seemed like a gratuitously mean thing to say to a person, Phil had paid for his ten lessons. And if he wished to continue learning in the new year, Dan would have to keep teaching him: turning down a pupil was something he could not afford to do, in the most literal sense. Dan would just have to try some different pedagogical techniques if Phil wanted to carry on, and hope that whatever resulted from the lessons would be sufficient to make Phil feel he was not wasting his money.

Phil knew he was showing few signs of improvement, but without any comparative examples of piano lessons to draw on, he hoped that Dan had met others who were similarly slow to progress. To make up for his lack of an instrument to practise on, he studied the elements of musical notation that Dan had introduced him to, and over the two and a half months of lessons had gone from having no knowledge of sheet music to being able to understand a basic score. This knowledge, however, was useless without the ability to produce the music that such written scores represented.

By rights, Phil’s piano lessons should in the circumstances have been a miserable experience. Half an hour a week of going through the same dull exercises isn’t typically a fulfilling activity. But as the weeks progressed, the lessons in fact became more enjoyable for both participants, as the construal of their relationship as strictly business-orientated became less fixed. To begin with, Dan had set himself in professional mode, as he was used to doing when giving lessons—this was, after all, his most stable source of income—and had correspondingly eschewed the usual small talk he might have thought to make otherwise. Phil had been a little disheartened by Dan’s reluctance to engage in conversation on non-musical topics, but had instead pressed him on the musical ones. Dan’s occasional dry jokes had in turn encouraged Phil to relax and open up more in the lessons. Somehow, over the weeks, these first tentative attempts at conversation had grown into an actual degree of chattiness between the two of them, and now, either of them was liable to stall the lesson with the introduction of some conversational tangent that they would spend several minutes animatedly discussing before returning to the matter at hand, often with slight reluctance.

If Dan had given this any thought, he might have realised that Phil was far more eager to talk about entirely unrelated topics than actually receive the piano lessons he was paying for. Such a realisation would surely have indicated to him that Phil’s goal was not wholly that the lessons should turn him into a pianist. But, in good faith, such a thought never crossed his mind.

And so, the time arrived for Phil’s tenth lesson. Dan finished locating the appropriate sheet music and glanced out of his window to see whether he was approaching. It was a fresh winter day, the bare trees that lined the street silhouetted pleasingly against an apparently cloudless sky. Sure enough, Phil was heading towards the building, his head a little bent to shelter his face from the wind. Dan turned back towards the piano, and a few moments later, his phone lit up with a text: _Open up_.

After bounding down the stairs two at a time—it just seemed like that kind of day—Dan arrived at the front door, and pulled it open. “How’s it going?” he asked, as Phil stepped over the threshold.

“Good, yeah,” said Phil. “Just been making plans to go home for Christmas. My parents only live twenty miles down the road, but I haven’t been home for months.”

They neared the top of the stairs. “Oh yeah, I should probably get on that,” Dan mused. “Mum said she’d pay my train fare home. I’m not that bothered about going home now that the dog’s dead though, to be honest.”

“Oh,” said Phil, unsure of how to respond to that.

“I _guess_ ,” Dan continued, “it’ll be nice to see my family, though.”

Phil could tell from the exaggerated emphasis on _guess_ that Dan’s reluctance to go home was at least partially feigned. He relaxed. “Got any siblings?” he asked.

“Yeah, a brother. Fifteen. Little shit. Nah, he’s cool. You?”

“Brother too. He’s older than me. Not by much.” He paused, and then added, “We get on pretty well.”

“Nice,” said Dan appreciatively. By this point, they had assumed their usual positions, Phil at the piano and Dan on his chair to the side. The conversation seeming to have come to its natural end, Dan turned his attention to the lesson. “Right, shall we start with the usual stuff?” he suggested.

As he was about to place his hands over the keyboard, Phil remembered an idea that had occurred to him earlier that week. “Actually, before I forget,” he said, “I was meaning to ask you. Would you be interested in doing a collab? For YouTube?”

Dan frowned. “A collab?” He pronounced it as if he had never heard the term before—and he hadn’t.

“Yeah, I’ve done a few this year,” said Phil. “Basically, we make two videos together, one for each of our channels, so they’d be similar to what we make normally, but they’d both have the other person in them. So for my channel, we’d probably do a quiz or something, and then for yours, it would be something musical—”

Dan cut him off with a dry laugh. “No, sorry. I”—his expression became serious as he noticed Phil’s confusion at the sudden refusal—“don’t think that would really fit with my videos.”

“You can do yours about whatever you like, though,” Phil protested. “And I’d run mine past you before we filmed it, too.”

“No,” Dan repeated. “I just—I don’t know, look, let’s get on with the lesson.”

Phil forced himself to put the moment aside to worry about later, and they turned their attention to the piano, spending a few minutes working on the same exercises that they had covered in the previous lessons. Phil, of course, had the usual difficulties in positioning his hands and producing an even tone. Both of them were used to such problems, and persevered with the task, notwithstanding a few conversational interruptions. Once this was completed, Dan brought out the manuscript paper, and they worked on Phil’s understanding (excellent) and interpretation (sub-par) of sheet music for a while.

“Right,” said Dan, after that, “let’s do something different for Christmas,” and he retrieved a book from the pile of music next to him, before standing and walking over to Phil’s right side. “Shove up.”

Phil obediently shuffled to the left side of the piano stool, and Dan sat down next to him. It was a squeeze, and their thighs touched. Dan opened the book and bent it backwards so it would lie flat on the music stand; as he did so, Phil saw the title, _Christmas Duets for Absolute Beginners!_

“OK, this is simple stuff,” Dan said. “You’re basically playing the same notes over and over again, it just changes a bit at the end. Both hands in bass clef, so watch it.”

He waited for Phil to find the notes he was to play, and ran through the details of the music before adding the teacher’s  part over the top. The whole piece only lasted about a minute: duet books of this type were typically conceived with the short attention span of a seven-year-old in mind, as the larger print and cartoons of cheerful snowmen on the page with the pupil’s part attested. Neither Dan nor Phil chose to pass comment on this.

Phil made his way through the piece, hesitating a little when the right-hand note changed towards the end, but eventually reaching the end of the page. As his only duty was to pick out the repeated bassline in time with Dan, it wasn’t a particularly taxing exercise. As he played, he concentrated on counting and watching the nimble, confident movements of Dan’s slightly stubbier hands to the right of his own pale, slender ones, which seemed uncomfortably heavy and static in comparison.

Once they finished, Dan suggested “Next one?” and turned the page to the second duet in the book. They worked through it again in the same way. Phil’s part was slightly more complicated, and Dan slowed his down to allow Phil the time to find his notes. Neither of them had ever heard such a ludicrous slow-motion version of “Deck the Halls” before, and Phil found himself struggling to keep a straight face during the final bars of the piece. When it came to its end, he threw his head back and laughed, and Dan, trying to remain professional, kept quiet for a moment before giving in and joining him.

“Sorry,” said Dan, when they had stopped.

Phil shook his head, smiling. “Don’t _you_ apologise. I know I’m rubbish.”

Dan waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, you’re improving.” It wasn’t a complete lie: Phil’s piano playing skills were increasing, if at an infinitesimal rate.

Then Dan turned back to the piano, and, because he felt comfortable around Phil at this point; because he knew the only real live performance of his Phil had been party to had been the disaster at the Manchester YouTube gathering, and he wanted to show him something more competent; because he was squashed up next to Phil on the piano stool and didn’t really want to move; he picked out the first few notes of the “Deck the Halls” melody and then threw a few chords underneath with his left hand, gradually working up to a chromatic, jazzy improvisation on the tune, hoping Phil would indulge this short moment of showing off.

His hope was not in vain. Phil sat, pressed against Dan, watching his fingers work their way across the keyboard. Seeing Dan play the piano onscreen was different from being right next to him and seeing his hands turn over the keys and his brow furrow as he made split-second decisions about harmonies and voice-leading, being so close to him as to hear his soft breathing.

Dan came to a stop on a tonic ninth chord, his left hand stretched across in front of Phil to reach the bass note, before bashfully lifting his fingers off the keys. He avoided catching Phil’s eye, suddenly ashamed to have allowed himself this unprompted display of his skills.

But Phil had enjoyed it. “That was brilliant,” he said, nudging Dan’s shoulder gently in admiration. “Were you making it all up as you went along?”

“Yeah,” Dan mumbled, his face red, from the exertion or the embarrassment or perhaps something else.

“That’s so cool, Dan. I’ll never be able to play like that.”

Dan smiled, relaxing. “Well, you’ve only been playing ten weeks.”

“True,” Phil replied. He glanced at the clock on Dan’s wall, noticed they were only a couple of minutes away from the scheduled end of the lesson, and turned back to Dan, deciding the awkwardness that had resulted from their conversation about YouTube must have been conclusively dispelled if Dan had opened up enough to perform for him. “Hey, are you free after this? Want to go for coffee?”

“Yeah,” said Dan, a little surprised by the suggestion, “OK, great. Now?”

“Sure.”

Dan stood up from the piano stool, breaking contact between his and Phil’s bodies for the first time in a good few minutes, and grabbed a jacket from the back of the door. “Did you have somewhere in mind?”

“Not really,” said Phil, who had only had the idea to ask Dan for coffee a minute earlier. “My local, I suppose.”

He stood, and they left the flat together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> couldn’t resist a bit of the old duet trope, even though it was too early in Phil’s piano career (like that’ll ever happen) and in the story to have a bit of cheeky “excuse me I have to reach over your hand for this note, oh your face seems unusually close to mine rn, well i guess we need to passionately make out now”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Phil go out for coffee.

“Your ‘local’ is a Starbucks?” Dan asked, looking up at the familiar green frontage.

Phil grinned. “Thought we could try the Christmas drinks.”

Phil’s neighbourhood was closer to the centre of town than Dan’s: while Dan lived in a mostly residential area, Phil had a small variety of corner shops and bland chain cafés to choose from on his doorstep. They had walked for about fifteen minutes, chatting about Christmas arrangements and debating the merits of living closer or further away from town, and Phil had eventually led the way to Starbucks. Dan wasn’t going to complain about that.

Inside, Phil ordered a peppermint mocha, and Dan a caramel latte. “I’ll get yours too,” said Phil.

Dan looked at him with mild suspicion. “Why?”

“To say thanks for my piano lessons.”

“You’ve _paid_ me for those.”

“Yeah, but that’s just money, this is something nice,” Phil reasoned.

That made little sense to either of them, but Dan accepted with a shrug and a small smile, and they took the drinks to a table by the window.

There, they soon fell back into the lively conversation they had been having. Phil learnt that Dan had once divided a whole summer between playing the piano and working towards perfect scores on every track in Dance Dance Revolution; that he had loved Winnie the Pooh as a child; that he had undergone a disastrous week of work experience at a leisure centre. Dan learnt that Phil had a master’s degree in video production, and that he went to Florida with his parents every summer, and that he hated cheese with an almost religious fervour. Their drinks went cold long before they had finished drinking them, but it seemed a fair price to pay.

Eventually, a sufficient lull in the conversation allowed both of them to notice that the weather had taken an abrupt turn for the worse, and that it was raining, hard.

“Did you bring a coat?” Phil asked, watching the heavy drops of water cascade down the window.

Dan held up his jacket miserably. “Just this.”

“Oh,” said Phil. “Hey, my place is literally around the corner, I can lend you an umbrella if you want?”

“That’s great, thanks,” said Dan.

“No problem,” said Phil, glancing out of the window again. “Want to run to mine?”

Dan rolled his eyes and grinned in assent, and they stood and put their suddenly inadequate jackets on before leaving the shop.

Once they were outside, Phil took the lead, dashing towards his building with a mixture of leaps and strides in order to avoid the growing puddles that dotted the pavement. Dan, having decided preventing his hair from increasing in curliness was more important than keeping the rest of his body dry, removed his jacket and wrapped it over his head, doing his best to follow Phil’s example in avoiding standing on the wetter parts of the ground as he did so. This whole thing must look ridiculous, he thought.

Fortunately, Phil had been accurate in his assessment of his flat’s distance from Starbucks. They were soon at the door of his building, a large block of flats—quite different from Dan’s converted townhouse—and Phil swiped his key fob against a pad on the wall, allowing the two of them to enter.

Dan headed automatically for the stairs, but Phil threw a hand out in front of him. “No, there’s a lift,” he panted, out of breath from the short run. “I’m so unfit.”

“Same,” said Dan, following Phil to the lift door. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Phil would live in a building with a lift. It didn’t seem like something that ordinary people did; he had always seen all the tall buildings in the city as something for some other type of person, not people like him and Phil. He would have felt foolish, now, having to reconsider this, but fortunately was able to concentrate on getting his breath back instead.

Phil leant against the wall of the lift, his hands on his knees, for the same purpose. The water was beginning to evaporate from his clothes in the sudden indoor heat and creating little patterns of steam on the mirrored surface of the lift wall behind him. Dan felt the appropriate response was to look away, and did so, concentrating on his own reflection. A drop of rain was running down his nose, right in the middle. He wiped it away impatiently.

They reached the requisite floor, and Phil led the way into his flat. Dan examined his surroundings. Phil’s flat was perhaps marginally bigger than his own: it was mostly made up of an open-plan kitchen-cum-living room, with one open door revealing a small bathroom, and another closed door leading to what he presumed was Phil’s bedroom.

“Umbrella’s in here,” said Phil, pushing this door open, and Dan followed him to the doorway as Phil entered the room and headed across the room towards his wardrobe.

Then Dan noticed something odd.

He glanced behind him to confirm his suspicion. Then into the bedroom again.

His suspicion was confirmed.

“Phil,” said Dan, “where’s your piano?”

Phil turned back towards him. Shit, he thought.

“What?” he said.

Dan just stared at him for a few seconds. Then he spoke again, slowly. “You said you inherited a piano, right, and that’s why you wanted lessons ….” He tailed off.

“Um,” said Phil, “yeah. I … I don’t actually have a piano, Dan.”

“I don’t understand,” said Dan.

Maybe, thought Phil desperately, he’ll think getting to know each other has been worth it, and the fact I’ve been a complete idiot, an incredibly foolish cretin, won’t matter. “I sort of …” he continued, “I wanted to spend more time with you, so I told you I wanted piano lessons.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, well, not really, but I’ve learnt a lot …”

“ _What_ —” Dan began.

This is the point where he says _it’s fine, we wouldn’t have made friends otherwise!_ , Phil told himself.

“ _How_ —” Dan seemed lost for words. “What was the point?” he managed eventually, weakly.

“Dan, I wanted to … spend more time with you. I wanted to be your friend,” said Phil.

“So, what,” said Dan, “you bribed me? You actually _bribed_ me to make friends with you?”

“What?!” Phil echoed. “What, no!”

“No, hang on, Phil,” Dan continued, cutting in quickly. “It looks to me like you definitely did. You literally paid me to spend time with you, you told me you were interested in learning the piano, you told me you _had_ a fucking piano but clearly you don’t”—he gestured towards the room behind him—“so what the fuck were you doing?” His voice had risen to a shout.

“I, I just wanted to get to know you better,” said Phil quietly.

“Phil, that is not how people get to know each other better. You could have, I don’t know, texted me or Twitter messaged me or sent me a message on fucking _YouTube_ , you didn’t have to ask me for fucking piano lessons as if you didn’t think I can make friends like a normal person … you didn’t have to pay me to be your friend.” His voice had grown quieter.

“Dan,” said Phil, an edge of desperation in his voice. “I didn’t pay you to be my friend.”

“Well, it fucking looks like you did,” said Dan. “You know what, Phil, word of advice for next time. I’m not worth the money.”

And he turned and left Phil’s flat, and walked home, grateful for the ongoing rain, which masked his tears from those who passed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (it was weird writing this rain- and christmas-themed chapter when the weather was so good, like there was literally a heatwave here last week)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some tedious introspection about the nature of YouTube in the form of a brief interludey type chapter

Time passed.

Dan and Phil were unable to forget about each other when their careers were centred around the same online spaces. On Twitter, both were popular enough, and shared enough followers, for it to mean either of them unfollowing the other would have been noticed. That would have caused speculation, and drawn attention to their connection at a time when both of them wanted to forget about it. Phil, as a more central part of the British YouTube community, had seen bad situations get worse as a result of subscribers’ reactions to public spats between YouTubers on Twitter. Dan was held back from unfollowing Phil by a mixture of guilt, for being the one who had walked away, and common sense; he, too, knew people would talk.

On YouTube, both continued to upload their regular content. Dan shared his latest piano arrangements, music theory lessons, and Q&A videos, still alone in his tiny flat. Phil filmed, in his slightly less tiny flat, vlogs about the interesting encounters he had in Manchester, and collaborations set up by his management, with people he forced himself to pretend he would ever have as much of a connection with as he had begun to forge with Dan, some time ago.

Phil stopped watching Dan’s videos, for the most part. Hearing Dan speak to his audience in the way he had once spoken to Phil, hearing him making the same kinds of jokes, doing the same subconscious hand gestures, but knowing none of it was for him anymore, was upsetting. To begin with, Phil continued to watch those of Dan’s videos where the title and thumbnail made it obvious that it would be a piano performance, and that Dan wouldn’t be showing his face. To be extra careful, Phil developed a habit of opening another tab immediately after clicking play, to hide the video from sight. Seeing Dan, hearing him, would be unbearable. Seeing the thumbnails of videos where Dan sat and talked to the camera, seeing the tiny image of his face on the subscriptions page, was already enough to give Phil an uncomfortable feeling; hearing his voice, Phil knew, would restore him to the agony of seeing a particularly rewarding friendship wither just as it had begun to bloom, and so he made sure never to click on any of them. After a few weeks, this state of vigilance he had to assume every time he visited his subscriptions page had begun to detract from his enjoyment of watching other YouTubers, and in a reluctant act of self-care, he unsubscribed altogether.

Dan remained subscribed to Phil, and watched his videos, at first, with a mixture of apathy and defiance. Apathy, because the act of unsubscribing would have been something he would have had to intellectually justify to himself, and he couldn’t be bothered to formulate an argument with which he would be able to satisfy his own doubts. Defiance, because while part of him was sure he had done something bad in cutting Phil off so abruptly on that wet day in December, most of him wanted to believe that the whole event had been insignificant, and that it ought to have no bearing on what he watched on YouTube. He had subscribed to Phil after coming across one of his videos the previous summer, and so, he decided, there was no reason for him to reverse that decision now. With the same defiance, he continued to watch each one of Phil’s videos that appeared on his subscriptions page, each time taking in the few minutes impassively, as if he were studying it for an exam rather than engaging with a man who only a short while earlier had been on the cusp of becoming his best friend.

Gradually, however, Dan came to find it difficult to watch Phil’s videos so dispassionately. After a while, he found, once again, that he was genuinely enjoying watching them: his plan to absorb them indifferently was failing. When a much older video of Phil’s appeared in his recommendations, he ignored it. When this happened a third time, he capitulated.

As the video loaded, Dan was struck at first by the obviously far poorer quality of the camera. It reminded him of his own first videos, shot on his tiny digital camera in his parents’ house, the inability to change the unsuitable aspect ratio resulting in heavy black borders at the sides of each video until his revenue had finally mounted up to allow him to buy more sophisticated equipment. Now, Dan realised that it was only natural for every YouTube channel to start out that way. For some reason, he now realised, he had considered Phil, a proper YouTuber, to be immune to such inauspicious beginnings: he had subconsciously assumed that Phil’s channel had sprung forth fully formed as it was today, with bright colours, and top-quality editing, and well-framed shots. But of course, Phil’s channel had begun like anybody else’s.

Before getting too distracted by this revelation, however, Dan found himself noticing differences about the video itself. While the Phil of today tended to make videos with a single coherent storyline, Phil of the past appeared to have a different approach. The video was much shorter than Dan was used to—only a couple of minutes—but somehow felt just as long, given the number of topics he managed to fit in. Phil appeared to be talking about whatever came into his head, rather than sticking to just one subject. What was more, he had cut in some completely different shots of himself with strange patterns drawn on his face, his voice modified to be an octave or two lower, just for a second or less before cutting back to the main setup. It had a completely different feeling from Phil’s current videos: something surreal and dark and complicated, not calm and pure and simple.

The even stranger part was that this seemed _familiar_.

Dan could only assume that he must have been in the habit of watching Phil’s early videos several years earlier. He counted back: it was nearly five years ago, now, that he had started his own YouTube channel, and that had been the point at which he had made the decision to watch only musical content. It was conceivable that he could have come across Phil’s videos before then. There was something in them—the music, the scene changes—that gave him a completely unexpected feeling of nostalgia.

And, as you might expect, Dan began to wonder why Phil’s videos had changed so much. He had matured, of course, but the style of his videos had changed inconceivably. What, Dan thought, had prompted Phil to do this? How had YouTube changed so much in the last five years? He thought back to the first video where he himself had shown his face, back in 2009. He had been part of a community of musicians then, and somehow, that was unfathomably different from how he perceived the “YouTube community” now. People like Phil, and the others he had come across at the gatherings last summer: they seemed like something more organised, more official.

Before, he had conceived of these two eras of YouTube as entirely disconnected: he saw himself as belonging to early YouTube, increasingly threatened by how the site was slowly becoming so slick and corporate, ruthlessly dividing its userbase into creators and fans. But now, looking back at Phil’s old videos for the first time, he realised things were more complicated. The slightly pixelated Phil he saw in his university bedroom, the high-quality, well-edited Phil who appeared on YouTube now, and the real-life, three-dimensional Phil he had begun to get to know at the end of last year: these three were one. None of them was more authentic than any other. There was a continuity that held them together, that held YouTube together, and that held Dan’s own trajectory together. And he had to decide whether to embrace it or reject it.

Rediscovering Phil’s early videos, Dan slowly realised, had been like coming across the final piece in a puzzle that he hadn’t even known was a puzzle in the first place. Phil Lester was someone who had been consigned to his past through his own error, but AmazingPhil the YouTuber was suddenly familiar. Dan remembered his brief time as a YouTube fan, now, with embarrassment at his teenage self but also with an aching nostalgia. It was something from before he had left home and tried to make it through music college, before he had realised the outside world was bigger and more chaotic and more hopeless than he had ever imagined.

So Dan sat in his tiny flat watching Phil on YouTube, and things began to fall into place.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go wrong for Dan, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uploading this a few hours earlier than my usual ‘schedule’ (lol) dictates cos I have a friend coming to stay later and sure I’m letting her know about my fanfiction habit

The summer came around again, and with it Dan’s usual increase in wedding reception bookings. Like playing in bars, this was a convenient source of income, and one that caused him no difficulties: the pianist’s job in these situations was to provide background music. Dan could get on with playing in the knowledge that nobody was really paying attention to what he was doing, which prevented the problems that more performance-centred contexts caused him.

It was late July, and Dan had a booking for a wedding reception an hour’s bus journey north of Manchester. Driving would have been much more convenient for getting to his out-of-town gigs, but the cost of running a car was hard to justify when the public transport in the Manchester area was decent. As a result, Dan arrived in the town over an hour early, and took advantage of the good weather to have a wander around.

There was little to see in the town centre, an uninspiring mixture of drab chain shops and slightly pathetic-looking local businesses. Dan found himself heading away from the shops and houses, down a long, narrow road that stretched away towards the fields. The hedges threw sharp shadows onto the hot tarmac in front of him, as he passed from light, to darkness, back to light again. Now and then, a bird sang briefly, or a car passed by indifferently. There was nothing to think about.

Eventually Dan turned back, and made his way to the hotel where the wedding reception was taking place. After introducing himself to the staff, he was shown to the room where he was due to play. The room was empty—Dan always ensured he was early so there would already be music by the time the first guests were arriving—and he sat at the piano and began to play.

It was a large, rather dark room, and Dan was tucked into a back corner, which suited him. As the guests began to arrive, he continued playing, not looking at those walking in but instead reserving his upward glances for those who were already seated, whose faces were difficult to make out in the low light. Likewise, none of the entering guests concentrated on him particularly; many shot a brief, appreciative glance in his direction, before heading to their tables, but none dwelt on what they saw. Some, engaged in the necessary awkward conversation with distant relatives or friends of friends of friends, barely noticed him. That was how he liked it.

Dan played softly, taking care not to draw attention to himself by staying away from any more flamboyant repertoire, or any pieces with sudden modulations or surprising harmonies that would be noticed by the wedding guests at a level beyond pleasant, innocuous background music. He worked his way through some Mozart, some early Beethoven, a little Haydn, interspersing these with his own harmonisations of a few more contemporary wedding favourites. As he played, he involuntarily glanced at the guests now and then, reassuring himself with confirmation that they were too occupied by their food and conversation to pay him much attention.

After finishing a set of Mozart variations, he decided to indulge himself with a personal favourite, and began to play one of his old arrangements, _Words Drowned By Fireworks_ from the Final Fantasy VII soundtrack. He had played this in one of his early videos—over four years ago now. A lot about his life had changed since then, but this music was a constant, and he found the notes easily, throwing in a few improvised touches to pad out the simple tune, lost in the music until he looked up towards the end to find that the whole room was staring at him.

That was how it seemed to Dan. In reality, only a couple of tables’ worth of guests were looking in his direction. To him, it looked like a sea of indistinguishable faces; he was unable to make out their expressions or perceive any detail before he no longer found himself capable of focusing on them at all, realising he was still playing, but suddenly jarred. It all felt wrong. It _was_ wrong. They weren’t supposed to be watching him like that. Suddenly, it had begun to feel as if he was playing the piano through a series of windows, his mind separated from his body, by one, his body from the piano by the next, the piano from the sound it made by a third, and scores more, reflecting the audience, showing their reproachful faces, letting them see his flaws from every angle. They closed around them, and his fingers began to shake, he began to feel his heart beating and his breath catching and it was hard to make his fingers do what they wanted when they were blurring in front of him and trembling, and his thoughts became more visible to him than what was really in front of his face.

The last time it had been this bad was in Manchester, at the YouTube gathering a year ago. There had been a couple of almost-incidents at gigs like this in the intervening months, but the audiences had been small enough, the room right enough somehow, for him to catch himself before things got this bad. This time, though, he could feel himself slipping away.

Finally, Dan’s hands faltered, and he brushed a stray key with a finger, feeling the crowd of onlookers grow, drawn to his mistake like piranhas that had tasted blood, circling him, entrapping him with their judgement, with his failure. It was becoming difficult to tell what he was playing. He was unable to bring the music to a stop, because when he did, he knew he would be found out. He had to get through, instead, play through until it was back to normal and he could see and hear clearly what he was doing.

This technique had never worked.

Another brief wrong note, another, and now even a Dan in a rational state would have thought his audience had noticed that something was going awry by now. His efforts to ride out the problem had been in vain. Any moment now, he was going to plunge suddenly back into reality, as he always did, and the loosening connection between his mind and his hands would drop altogether—

It dropped, and he hung there for an age that lasted less than a second, one finger clumsily hanging onto a key whose ugly note resounded alone in the stagnant air of the room where everyone was watching, before the whole situation came to a close in the usual way: Dan stumbling to his feet, making for the exit, letting himself find a way out.

Without thinking about it, without being able to think about it, he fled the room, into the corridor, through the outer doors and onto the grassy bank outside. There, in the harsh sunlight, he felt himself tumble to the ground, and stayed there, in a half-reclining, half-sitting position, his own heavy breathing echoing in his ears.

Despite everything, being outdoors was an advantage. While the sun did nothing for the sweat that had begun to form while he was playing, the difference in atmosphere, the lack of the oppressive dimness that had sat around him forced him back into reality. Unable to stand, he stayed there on the grass and watched himself shake, wishing himself away. The sun shone down on him. The birds sang.

And then, the noise of a person emerging from the building behind him, and the person’s footsteps growing louder as they approached him, and finally, the sight of a young man in a dinner jacket and outrageously colourful bow tie.

As the man approached Dan, a look of concern on his face, he called his name.

Dan’s breath hitched as he prepared to use his voice, but he managed to call back: “Phil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “most clichéd simile” award goes, rather fishily, to paragraph 10 of this chapter


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil attends his cousin’s wedding reception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated, with some reservations, to the inordinate number of people I know getting married at the moment.

Phil hadn’t noticed who was playing the piano to begin with: he’d been too preoccupied with the forced civility of his cousin’s wedding reception. Coming from a big family who all lived locally had its advantages—you never felt unpopular at birthday parties—but it did mean family weddings meant dragging out various great-aunts and second cousins thrice removed, who somehow knew everything about him and expected him to reciprocate. His parents having been deemed of sufficient genealogical closeness to the bride to merit seats at a more important table, and his brother being unable to make the event at all because of work commitments, Phil had found himself seated next to an uncle he hadn’t seen in at least five years. At least he had escaped, apparently narrowly, being assigned to the children’s table, but had begun to think that might have been preferable. If they’d accepted his comparatively enormous height, he’d probably have felt more comfortable there than with the other adults.

Then again, putting Phil with the children would have been particularly absurd when, at twenty-six, he was a full two years older than the bride. She wasn’t the first younger cousin of his to have got married, either. Phil couldn’t imagine committing to being with someone for the rest of his life, not already; and yet the relatives he’d met at the wedding seemed to expect him to be settling down right now. He was running out of fingers on which to count the number of times someone had asked him “will it be your turn next, Philip?” or “do you have a young lady with you today?” or “met any nice girls lately?”

Phil hadn’t dated any “nice girls” since his schooldays, and he hardly counted those as proper relationships, given that they had mostly been conducted through the medium of MSN Messenger and had varyingly lasted between five days and three months. As a university student, he’d moved on to a series of thoroughly dirty boys, who he certainly wasn’t planning to inform his extended family about—and most of those hadn’t been real relationships either, just convenient and extremely satisfying odysseys of sexual discovery. In the four years since finishing his master’s degree, he’d mostly contented himself with staring at attractive men in coffee shops or at bus stops, and indulging in a spot of highly unrealistic fantasising once he was safely back home on his own.

Coming in at a close second in the list of questions he was being subjected to constantly today but hated having to answer was “and what are you doing with yourself now?”, asked in that slightly patronising way that signalled the asker had perhaps heard about Phil’s incomprehensible obsession with filming himself talking and putting the result online for several thousand strangers to watch; or maybe they merely remembered the various odd ways in which he had behaved as a child and had decided that such a person would never be able to take on a respectable career. Explaining YouTube to people who used the internet only once a week to check their emails was difficult: their subsequent bemusement on learning it was actually possible to earn money from such a thing was so deep-seated that he was forced on each occasion to wait politely for several seconds while his interlocutor appeared to have some kind of intense struggle with their own conscience. _Earning money on the internet? But that can’t be possible! Is the boy some kind of porn actor? When’s he going to get a real job?_

On some occasions, this last question was asked out loud, and Phil replied with a false smile and a non-committal comment such as “oh, lots of people working in the creative industries started out on the internet,” before taking the next opportunity to make an exit.

Now that he was seated at a table, getting away was impossible. Phil therefore found himself spending the entire first course engaged in serious conversation with his uncle, reluctantly explaining the exact nature of his career. Consequently, he didn’t notice the pianist beyond occasionally recognising a snatch of music and vaguely thinking it was quite nice, before reluctantly dealing with his uncle’s latest inane question or unsubstantiated assertion.

It was when Dan began playing _Words Drowned By Fireworks_ that Phil noticed him. Phil had played Final Fantasy VII enough times to recognise its soundtrack, and he was initially pleasantly surprised that the pianist had chosen to play something so different from the usual repertoire. Then, after listening to a few bars, he realised the arrangement sounded familiar.

It had actually been Dan’s Final Fantasy arrangements that had alerted Phil to the existence of his YouTube channel: he had a habit of listening to video game soundtracks while going about his daily business, and so, when one of Dan’s piano versions came up among his suggested videos, he had clicked it out of interest, and been impressed by what he’d heard. Dan had come back to the Final Fantasy VII soundtrack regularly during the period Phil had been subscribed to his videos, and Phil had perhaps enjoyed these parts of Dan’s output the most. This particular arrangement, he remembered as he listened, had been uploaded at around the time Phil had subscribed to Dan, and in the intervening couple of years, until he unsubscribed, he had come back to it several times. Hearing it now was comforting in his familiarity, and yet on the other hand it took him entirely by surprise, so much so that he interrupted his uncle, who was saying something about a newspaper article he’d read that apparently proved mobile phones decreased the average lifespan by ten years.

“That’s Dan,” said Phil, more to himself. “I know him.”

“Sorry?” his uncle asked, too surprised by the uncharacteristic interruption to be properly annoyed.

“Dan,” Phil explained. “Playing the piano. I, um, we know each other.”

Phil’s uncle peered towards Dan in curiosity. “Oh, he _does_ look young,” he said. “Now, look, Philip, there’s a young man doing well for himself. Can’t be much more than twenty, and he’s already a professional pianist.”

Phil felt his irritation at his uncle’s continued insinuations about his career turn to genuine happiness on Dan’s behalf for earning his uncle’s clearly hard-won praise. This, however, in turn gradually gave way to horror as he realised what was in danger of happening, when his uncle enthusiastically alerted the rest of the table to Dan’s presence.

“Philip here,” he was saying, “knows this young lad playing the piano—how old is he? Philip?”

Phil made an approximate calculation. “Twenty-two, I think,” he muttered, hoping his quietness would dispel the other guests’ sudden interest in Dan.

“Twenty-two!” his uncle exclaimed. “He must be very talented. Look, Norma,” he continued, turning his attention to a lady passing their table on her way back from the loo, “this young pianist chap is a friend of our Philip. Isn’t he wonderful?”

“Oh, certainly,” Norma agreed, and as she sat back down at her own table, next to theirs, Phil saw more heads turn in Dan’s direction. He lowered his own, trying to concentrate on the food, which the other guests appeared to have put aside in order to stare senselessly at Dan. Phil hoped they would lose interest before Dan looked in their direction and saw two tables of guests watching him.

As you know, this didn’t happen. 

When Dan stopped playing abruptly, Phil looked up just in time to see the colour drain from his face before he bolted from the room.

“Oh,” said one of the guests opposite him, sounding equally amused and disappointed. “That was a sudden ending.”

“I suppose he has to go for toilet breaks now and then,” said another, and laughed.

Phil was incredulous.

“Well, when he comes back in I may just ask for a few requests,” said Phil’s uncle.

“Excuse me,” said Phil, and rose quickly from his chair, not waiting to hear his uncle’s latest pronouncement in reply (which, as it happens, was “A little _rude_ , Philip”) before making his way out of the room as quickly as possible.

Phil headed for the men’s toilet, but it was deserted. A tiny bar of perfumed, extravagant soap sat ludicrously on the edge of the sink. Phil knocked it aside in anger, and it fell into the sink, coming to rest in the plughole. Impatiently, he turned back into the corridor, and assessed the options. An opulent staircase led up to the guest bedrooms; he headed onto the first floor, but it was deserted. After coming down the stairs again, he eventually decided to head outside onto the grassy slope that led down from the hotel.

It was suddenly bright, and Phil waited for his eyes to adjust before spotting a figure some way down the slope: a young man, half-sitting, half-lying, in a surely uncomfortable position, facing back up towards the hotel, and trembling slightly, like a brown leaf about to fall from the tree. 

“Dan!” Phil called in desperation, as he started carefully down the slope towards the figure.

After a pause, the wind carried his own name faintly back to him, and his cautious walk became a jog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a lot more fun to write than the last one! Also the uncle character is totally one-dimensional, soz. Oddly enough I wrote the “some kind of porn actor” line shortly before Dan put out his latest video affirming that his job didn’t involve being [“some kind of porn star”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pozApKTUmAk&t=232s) … so maybe I’m actually Dan or something idk


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Phil have a talk.

Dan stared up, and Phil stared down, until one of them spoke again.

It was Phil. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Dan was grateful to find his ability to speak had returned, and he squinted up at Phil in indignation. “ _Phil_ —I—what? No, fuck it, hang on. Look, I’ve been thinking about this for months, really, and I admit it. I overreacted. It was kind of weird, I’m not going to lie, but I should have let you explain.”

Phil began to interrupt; Dan kept going.

“Phil, I’ve been watching your videos, and, you know, I like them. You’re a nice person, and to be honest, I don’t know why you wanted to be _my_ friend so much. I guess that’s what I thought was so weird. And I need to apologise to you, too.”

“ _Dan_ ,” said Phil, and Dan stopped, caught off-guard by his forceful tone.

“I meant,” Phil continued, “I’m sorry for … for today. It was kind of my fault that people started watching you. I was just surprised to see you, I guess.”

Dan frowned.

Phil went on. “I mentioned to my uncle that I knew you, and, well, he’s quite loud, and he told the rest of the table. He was quite impressed by you, actually.”

“Oh,” said Dan. “Well, he’s been put right about that, then.”

“ _Dan_ ,” said Phil again, and could think of nothing to follow that with, so he just stood there for a while. Then he sat down on the grass next to Dan, because it seemed like something to do. Dan moved to the side a little, to ensure some space remained between them.

“Are you getting help?” said Phil eventually. When Dan gave no answer, he continued. “Because you deserve better than this. You’re”—he hesitated—“very talented.”

“What kind of help could I get for _this_?” Dan asked flatly.

“I don’t know. Therapy. It’s anxiety, isn’t it? That’s quite common, I think therapy of some kind is the normal starting point. There’s definitely something.”

Dan had never considered this before. Nor, indeed, had he heard the word _anxiety_ used to define his own experience. He had been for counselling of a kind prior to dropping out of music college, but the counsellor had never given a name to what he was experiencing, as if naming it would be the last step in making it unavoidable. Now, though, hearing it given this name somehow made it easier to understand, and reassured him. Anxiety was a word he’d heard thousands of times before. Perhaps thousands of other people suffered the way he did. Perhaps someone knew how to deal with it. To be sure, he probed Phil on the subject.

“You think it’s anxiety?”

“Don’t you? I don’t know what else it would be.”

“Maybe it’s just being shit at playing the piano.”

“Dan, you’re not. I know you don’t believe me, but you’re _not_.” He attempted to look Dan in the eyes, but found the other man’s gaze resolutely lowered. “Do you want a hug?” he suggested.

“No thanks,” said Dan, for whom physical contact with another human was just about the worst thing imaginable at the current time.

“OK,” Phil acquiesced. “But honestly, you deserve to have someone help you see how good a pianist you actually are. And I might not be able to do that, but if you go to a professional, they’ll definitely get somewhere.”

Dan kept his eyes fixed on the ground.

“I hate seeing you like this,” Phil added.

“Fine,” said Dan, after a while. “I’ll see someone. If you do something for me.”

Phil frowned. “This isn’t about making bargains, it’s about making your life better.”

Dan was silent.

“Well, what is it?” Phil asked.

“Forget about the last few months and go back to being friends,” said Dan forlornly.

Phil felt an odd sensation somewhere in his chest, a sudden burst of joy mixed with relief and possibly something else.

“I mean, I should have given you a chance to explain, I guess,” Dan went on. “Not that it wasn’t kind of strange, but I probably owed you more than just walking out on you.”

“I wouldn’t really have had an explanation,” Phil admitted, and Dan looked him in the eye and nodded slowly.

“Part of me just couldn’t believe you’d gone back out into the rain, you know,” Phil added, his mouth curving into a small smile. “I bet you got soaked.”

Dan smiled too. “Yeah, I did. It wasn’t worth it.” He shifted to a more comfortable reason, suddenly realising that the feeling of panic had receded quite distinctly throughout their conversation; now it was hardly there at all, as long as he avoided the thought of going back inside. “So,” he asked, “what have you been up to recently? As if this couldn’t get any more awkward,” he added quickly.

Phil laughed, and began catching Dan up on the previous few months of his life. There was little to say, to be frank: he had acquired a number of minor YouTube sponsorship deals which had been a welcome boost to his career, and had of course attended a few conventions and similar events. As he spoke, he became aware of how much of his news was YouTube-focused, and began to worry that Dan would find this apparent obsession with the website irritating; Phil’s life,  he told himself, wasn’t all about YouTube, but YouTube did seem to be the only thing going on at the moment that was interesting. Fortunately, though, Dan seemed happy enough to hear about it, and once Phil had run out of things to say about his own life, it turned out that Dan’s too was mostly marked by YouTube-related points of significance.

After they had chatted for a while, Dan glanced back towards the hotel. “We’ve been out here for ages,” he said. “They’ll _definitely_ be wondering where you are. Don’t stay here on my account.”

“Yeah,” Phil agreed reluctantly. “Are you not going back in?”

“No,” Dan replied immediately, and Phil thought it best not to press the point. “I’ll just get the next bus home,” Dan added.

“OK,” said Phil. “And—are you definitely alright?”

“Am I OK to be left on my own?” Dan echoed, sarcastically but not maliciously.

“You know what I meant.”

“I’m fine, Phil. I won’t start questioning the purpose of my existence on the bus, don’t worry.” He paused. “Well. Maybe I will, but don’t worry, anyway.”

Phil smiled and got to his feet.

“Text me when you’re free, and we’ll go back to Starbucks. Or wherever,” said Dan as he did so.

“Oh,” Phil replied. “Um, I actually got a new phone, and I don’t think …”—he trailed off.

“You deleted my number?”

Phil dared to look down at Dan, and found to his relief that he was grinning. “Give me your phone, I’ll do the honours,” Dan went on.

Phil passed the phone over, and waited for Dan to input his details, before walking back towards the hotel, bracing himself for a return to culinary etiquette and embarrassing conversations with distant relatives. Dan sat on the grass a while longer, before heading off himself, in the opposite direction.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Phil begin meeting more regularly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really just a lot of angst about money and me getting political about the state of the NHS i guess. Bonus points if you can find the gaping plot hole in this chapter

Over the following weeks, Dan and Phil began to see more and more of each other. First, they met in coffee shops by day and pubs by night; later, having confirmed that each of them was as much of a nerd as the other, in video game shops and bubble tea cafes. Later still, when it became clear to both of them that this kind of lifestyle was rapidly becoming a financial burden, an unspoken agreement saw them meeting at each other’s flats accompanied by junk food and something from Phil’s impressive DVD and video game collection. With these supplies assembled, they settled down for a few hours of screen time and good-natured banter.

They had gone back to speaking little about YouTube, but not because it seemed like something that required avoiding; rather because there were now enough conversational topics available to talk about things that were more interesting than work. Dan continued to watch Phil’s videos, and now recognised the Phil he knew as a friend in the Phil he saw onscreen, seeing how his honest personality came through for his audience: perhaps a little overplayed for the camera, and with certain aspects hidden entirely, but comfortably predictable enough to give off an authentic kind of Philness. Dan felt privileged to enjoy the frequent company of this man that so many people looked up to on the internet: he was getting to know the real Phil Lester, who was AmazingPhil but with so many more qualities, ones that would not easily be revealed in a purely virtual presence. 

Dan continued to make his own videos. His growing friendship with another well-known YouTuber had no effect on his output: he continued his mix of piano videos and lighthearted informational musical content. Dan’s own face was the only one that had ever appeared on his videos, and despite being friends with another member of the community, through whom he would also have had access to other YouTubers, he never even considered any kind of collaboration. While Phil was a new component of his life, YouTube was a constant one.

A second new component, however, was Dan’s regular visits to a therapist. With a little more prompting from Phil, he had visited his doctor—for the first time in years—and asked to be referred to a specialist. What neither he nor Phil had realised, however, was how long Dan would have to wait to get access to therapy on the NHS. At first, the several-month-long delay seemed no problem: he had coped on his own for the last two years. But the incident at Phil’s cousin’s wedding reception had set him back. Before, he had been confident that playing for wedding receptions wouldn’t cause any significant difficulties; now, with this precedent, he was much more reluctant to take them on. The terrible way playing in front of an attentive audience made him feel was threatening to make itself known even as he received requests; trying to put together a performance schedule was becoming exceedingly difficult. He had formerly set aside his evenings for admin time, when he would confirm upcoming bookings, but found now that he had to change this, as the thought of a forthcoming performance would disrupt his ability to get to sleep, and he would lie in bed sweaty and trembling. He tried organising bookings over lunch, but found he consequently had no appetite; he tried in the mornings, but dreaded the task so much that he became unable to get out of bed. He told nobody this, of course.

Fortunately, however, Dan realised that he himself would have to take steps to deal with this issue. Financially, he decided, it made sense to pay to see a therapist until he came off the NHS waiting list and could start benefiting from the service for free. Being unable to take many bookings for gigs meant he was reliant on the money he got from lessons and YouTube revenue, which resulted in a significantly decreased income. But if he spent some of this income on a few sessions with a therapist until he could start seeing one on the NHS, he had a chance that considering live performances would become bearable again.

This plan seemed to work. While Dan understood that his difficulties with giving performances would take a long time to alleviate, the routines he practised with his new therapist allowed him to stave off the feelings of panic that had accompanied any audience-related thoughts, and his income became less tiny. While he had thought he would only need a very small number of paid-for therapy sessions, however, he had been wrong. Letters from the NHS mental health service that he was signed up to kept arriving and informing him of further delays to his first appointment. To avoid the situation getting any worse now that he had begun his treatment, he had to keep receiving it, and so he had to keep paying. If things went on like this any longer, he would no longer be able to afford to live.

He considered for a while, and then made up his mind. 

* * *

Phil knew Dan had begun therapy with a private provider, and had assumed this must therefore have been just about manageable in Dan’s financial situation. He was thus entirely unprepared for the news that Dan imparted one evening after an intense Donkey Kong session in Phil’s flat.

“Phil,” said Dan, returning from the other side of the room from where he had just retrieved a glass of tap water, “I’m going to have to leave Manchester.”

“What?” said Phil, blankly. Then he realised what was the more important question, and asked it: “Why?”

Dan sat down, avoiding eye contact. “I can’t afford to live here anymore. You know how it is. YouTube isn’t exactly a money spinner, and the rest is too changeable. Winter’s coming, and my bookings will go down, and I can’t pay for rent and living and everything else.”

“But what are you going to do?”

“Go back to my parents’ place.”

“In _Reading_?”

“Near there, yeah.” Dan glanced at Phil. He looked more upset than Dan had expected. “I actually mentioned it to my mum a couple of days ago on the phone. Told her I’d been here long enough, needed to go back home for a while. She sounded … quite pleased.” Recounting it, he himself sounded far less pleased.

“What about your piano teaching?” Phil asked.

“I’ll be able to do it there. I know who’s involved in the music scene there, there’s my old teacher, plenty of people. They can get me the contacts and I’ll start advertising, just like I did here. And I’ll be saving money, so once I get the piano stuff set up down there, I’ll be able to keep paying for therapy until I get off the NHS waiting list. Obviously I’ll have to tell my parents about that at some point,” he concluded, with a shaky laugh.

“Wait,” said Phil, “they don’t know?” He could barely imagine keeping something so significant from his own parents. “About any of it? What did you tell them when you dropped out of music college?”

Dan shrugged. “Same as I said on YouTube: I’d realised I didn’t want to be a performer.”

Phil shook his head. “There must be some way you can stay here. You can’t leave Manchester, that’s … nuts.”

“Nah,” said Dan. “Believe me, I’ve been thinking about it for a few weeks now. There’s no way around it. I can’t afford to live on my own anymore.”

“But couldn’t you live with other people? Like house sharing? That’s cheaper.”

“I can’t practise the piano around other people, Phil,” said Dan softly.

Phil was quiet for a moment. Then he remembered something. Last Christmas. Both of them sitting on the piano stool, Dan’s side pressed lightly against his. “You can play the piano in front of me,” he said.

“That’s different,” Dan replied. “I know you.”

“So can’t you live with someone you know?”

Dan frowned, growing slightly irritated by Phil’s inability to accept his departure; it was hard enough for him already. “Who?” he asked.

“Dan,” said Phil. “I meant _me_.” He smiled. “Do you want to live with me?”

“Seriously?” Dan paused. “There’s not really room for two here.”

“We can find somewhere new,” Phil replied. “Like you said, it’s cheaper to share. I’ve been living here so long, I’m on a rolling contract, they won’t mind if I leave as long as I give them a few weeks’ notice.”

Dan was silent, unsure whether to be relieved or doubtful. He had spent quite a while convincing himself he would be leaving Manchester, and now to have the possibility of staying reinstated was rather disorientating.

“We spend most of the time at each other’s places already, anyway,” said Phil, with a grin. He reached for his laptop. “Want to look up some flats online?”

Dan smiled back. “Yeah, OK.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains alcohol.

In the space of a single afternoon, Dan had met Phil’s father, temporarily entrusted the entirety of his possessions to Phil’s father (even the piano—he had brought a van), moved home, and acquired a flatmate. It felt like a momentous occasion.

Dan was to have the larger bedroom, so as to accommodate the piano. The initial plan had been to put it in the shared living area, but Dan had reminded Phil just how much time he spent practising, and suggested Phil might not want to hear a barrage scales and similar warm-up exercises whenever he was trying to watch television in the same room. With the piano in Dan’s room, Phil would still be able to hear it from other parts of the flat, but it would of course be less obtrusive to his own activities. To him, this seemed like the best of both worlds.

Just before leaving, Phil’s dad had presented the two of them with takeaway pizzas and a case of lager each, which they now sat on the settee to consume, the television on quietly in the background. For both of them, this was notably different from the last time they had moved into a new place, when the evening had been spent alone, and everything had been quiet and unfamiliar.

“Did you tweet about moving?” Dan asked Phil, between mouthfuls of pizza.

“Not yet,” Phil replied. “I guess I should. I can’t think of how to make it not boring. ‘What a fun day carrying cardboard boxes and bickering with my dad about screwdrivers.’”

Dan laughed. “Yeah. Actually, we should probably say we’ve moved in together. Maybe we should both tweet.” 

“You think so?”

“If someone finds out and we haven’t told anyone, they’ll think we’ve been hiding something,” Dan pointed out. “People might see us coming in and out of the same building, or, I don’t know … shopping in the same place. Or whatever. And it’ll be obvious when we make our next videos that we’ve _both_ moved, and people know we both live in Manchester, and that we know each other, so it won’t exactly be hard to guess.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” said Phil.

“Maybe we should announce it in a video, actually,” Dan went on.

Phil frowned. “We—you mean, make a video together?”

“Yeah,” said Dan. “Not like whatever it was you said ages ago about doing two and putting one on each person’s channel. It doesn’t need to be on my channel, that’s just music stuff anyway. We can just do one on yours. I can be your special guest, you can ask me some questions. Then you can do a flat tour or something.”

“Well,” said Phil, unsure how to react to Dan’s change of heart. Less than a year ago he had point-blank refused to appear in Phil’s videos; now it was he himself suggesting that he do so. “That sounds like a good idea, yeah. If you’re sure you’re OK with that.”

“Course,” said Dan.

“Great. Well, I’ll do a bit of a script then, and we can film it later this week, if that suits you.”

Dan grinned. “I’m not sure I can keep it a secret until then. Ha, no, I’ll contain myself. Don’t worry.”

Phil smiled.

* * *

 

Dan set down his empty can of lager, making sure to continue the straight row of drained cans he had created at the base of the settee, which now seemed particularly important for some reason. “What a great flat,” he announced.

“Yeah,” Phil agreed, with enthusiasm.

“A full-sized fridge,” Dan continued, appreciation evident in his voice, “a great view, nice thick walls so we won’t disturb each other if we bring any girls home—”

“Or boys,” Phil added automatically.

“Oh,” said Dan, and his eyes widened momentarily. “Yes. Or boys. Definitely, or boys.”

“Sorry,” said Phil. “I should probably have told you I’m bisexual before I asked you to move in with me. Honestly, it wasn’t part of some plan to seduce you or anything.” Although, he admitted to himself, seducing Dan wouldn’t exactly be something he would do reluctantly.

“What?!” said Dan. “Oh no, oh no no. I’m not—I didn’t mean that, I … I like both too, I guess.”

“You guess,” Phil echoed.

“Yeah.” Dan shrugged. “I don’t really _define_ it, you know, I just know I like men and women, and, like, sex with both of them is nice. And,” he added hastily, “I have _feelings_ about them both too, it’s not just, it’s not just about sex stuff.”

“OK,” said Phil. “Me too,” he admitted.

“I’m glad we’re … on the same page,” Dan replied sagely. In truth, he was slightly shocked, not by Phil’s sexuality, but by the ease with which Phil had said _I’m bisexual_. Dan couldn’t recall an occasion when he had heard someone say _I’m bisexual_ so straightforwardly before. It seemed almost too simple, in a way, when he himself seemed to have spent most of his life trying to decide whether he was straight or gay or something else before eventually deciding not to bother trying to define his sexuality.

Phil took a swig from his lager can, unaware of the profundity of Dan’s thoughts. “Play the piano for me,” he implored.

Dan manufactured an expression of reluctance, although after a whole day away from the piano, it wasn’t a particularly genuine one. “It’s late,” he protested feebly.

“Not _that_ late,” said Phil. “Just one song. Just one piece. Flat-warming music. You know.”

“Oh, I’ll just get out my flat-warming songbook,” said Dan, and laughed uproariously. But after his amusement at his own joke had worn off, he rose and made his way to his room. Phil followed close behind, taking particular care as he drained his can of lager to make sure none was spilt on the clean new floor.

Not everything had been unpacked, but the piano and its stool were set up in Dan’s room. Dan clambered onto the stool, switched the piano on, and obligingly began to play. He didn’t know what he was playing—Phil certainly didn’t—but it seemed to make harmonic sense, and was pleasant enough.

The piano stool was the only chair in the room, and Phil tried lying on Dan’s bed to listen, but from a horizontal position the world around him seemed as if it were in motion, and he didn’t appreciate that, so he sat on the edge of the bed behind the piano instead.

Dan’s playing eventually came to a stop, and he turned to face Phil. “Did you enjoy that? Did you appreciate that?” he demanded, a little more aggressively than he intended.

Phil nodded enthusiastically, thankfully unfazed by Dan’s manner. “I _did_ appreciate that. Thank you, Dan.”

“You’re very welcome.”

“You’re an excellent piano player.”

“Thank you, Phil.”

“You’re a lot better than you say you are.”

Dan cocked his head questioningly.

Phil went on. “You know, you always say you can’t play in front of people, but, like, I wish you could, because you’d show them you’re actually really, really good, and you could be a proper concert pianist and achieve all your dreams, because you deserve it, because you’re a good person and a really good piano player.”

“Thanks,” said Dan quietly.

Phil said nothing more, but stayed sitting on the edge of Dan’s bed, looking him in the eye, his expression unreadable.

“I think I might go to bed now,” said Dan.

“Yes,” said Phil decisively. “Is my room next door? Goodnight,” and he somewhat unsteadily made his way out of the room.

Dan, not bothering to remove his clothes, jumped straight onto his bed and lay there on his stomach, pressing the pillow over his head with both hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl the second half of this was actually really fun to write. Drunk D & P are based on drunk me who is uncharacteristically talkative and says all the things I normally keep to myself, which is both a blessing and a curse.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phil gets worried

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to D. M. It’s a good thing we don’t live together.

Phil woke up, found his way to the kitchen, got a glass of water, and returned to his bed, the unfamiliarity of the flat doing mercifully little to impede his progress.

Sitting on his bed, his back against the wall, he remembered that there was something incredibly important from last night, that he had thought it, at the time, an absolute necessity to remember. He saw now that opposite the bed, a pair of shoes was leaning almost vertically against the wardrobe. He had evidently arranged them in that way as a signal not to forget about this important piece of information.

Phil was certain now that there was something he was supposed to be thinking about, but still had no idea what exactly it was.

There was no food in the flat other than a single slice of cold pizza—neither of them had had the foresight to realise they might want something to eat in the morning—so, once Phil felt slightly more alive, he contented himself with a second glass of water, and brushed his teeth, considering the day ahead. He had to carry on unpacking his belongings, which seemed a huge task. Then there was his upcoming video, the one with Dan. He’d have to start thinking about that, coming up with a theme, maybe a bit of script for his introductory part; collab videos were always less effort to plan because you could have a natural conversation, but it always helped to know where you were trying to go with it. Planning videos wasn’t the world’s most enjoyable task, but it seemed preferable to sorting out an entire (admittedly fairly short) lifetime’s worth of possessions, so, still in his pyjamas, he headed into the living room, where his laptop was plugged in, and sat down to write.

As he waited for the computer to start up, the thing he’d been supposed to remember suddenly came to him.

Dan. Bisexual. 

Or, maybe not exactly bisexual, but definitely into men, in both the sex way and the relationship way. That was what he’d said.

This was a problem for Phil. He had always assumed Dan was straight—not because of anything about _him_ , but rather because it was usually easier to assume everyone else was straight—and had consequently never had to think about whether he would want him as a partner. Phil’s first interest in Dan, his first motivation to subscribe to Dan’s channel and consider him one of his favourite YouTubers and make a proper effort to get to know him, had been because he’d considered Dan _likeable_. In the same way he would consider a potential friend likeable. But also in the way he would consider a potential partner likeable. And over the last few months, he and Dan had become closer than friends. There was no doubt about it, they were best friends now.

But what was the difference, Phil thought, between a best friend and a boyfriend anyway, if the sexual orientation of both parties ticked the boxes? Physical attraction: was that the missing link? And he knew, although he was embarrassed to admit it to himself, that Dan’s likability hadn’t been the only reason he had subscribed to his channel. He _had_ found him attractive back then.

Still, Phil reasoned. That had been nearly two years ago now, by some definitions. Perhaps becoming friends with Dan had changed the way Phil perceived him. Perhaps the nascent physical attraction had been cut off before it could really blossom, strangled by the pleasant weed of a meaningful friendship. He’d had no cause to reflect on just how attractive Dan might have been while getting to know him in person and thinking him straight. Now he knew he wasn’t, he had cause to reconsider whether he found Dan physically attractive.

Phil turned his attention to his computer, determined to distract himself by planning his video. Of course, as Dan was to be in the video, this didn’t really work.

Not long afterwards, Phil heard a squeak from the bathroom door, and looked up to see Dan emerging. Oh shit, he thought.

Dan was wearing trousers, fortunately, but was shirtless under a towel draped loosely over his shoulders. The gradual contours of his hips were just about visible between the bottom of the towel and the waistband of his pyjama trousers. His hair was dripping wet, and curled more tightly than usual, a few curls falling in front of his eyes. His bare feet momentarily left small damp patches on the floor. Phil felt an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, possibly a mixture, he now realised, of lust and dread.

He’d messed things up with Dan before, and he now suspected it was only a matter of time before he did so again.

“Morning,” said Dan cheerfully. “Are you OK? You don’t look great.”

“Just hungover,” said Phil, grateful for the excuse.

Dan smirked. “Ah. Your age catching up with you? I’ve got some paracetamol, if you want it.”

“Thanks,” said Phil.

Dan headed to his room to find the tablets, and then passed Phil again, on his way to the kitchen sink. “One lump or two?” he called, as he filled a glass of water.

“Would you mind if I had two?” Phil replied.

Dan came back towards him. “Sure, just pay me back later,” he joked. He handed the tablets to Phil, and waited for him to swallow them before passing over the water glass. “Remind me to give up drinking by the time I get to your age,” he remarked. “And don’t think I’m going to get into the habit of doing things for you, I’m just being nice because you’re suffering.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Phil.

Dan grinned, and walked back to his room.

Once he was safely out of sight, Phil buried his head in his hands. He’d fallen for Dan. _Been_ falling for him, all these months. And he’d just discovered this the day after they’d moved in together, which was terrible timing.

Looking back, Phil realised that he must have had feelings for Dan all long. Why would he have done something as bizarre as pretend he owned a piano for several months if not as some kind of ill-thought-out romantic gesture? Why would he have been so unable to watch Dan’s videos during that period when they hadn’t been speaking? That had been a heartbreak, he now understood, of a kind. All the stupid irrational things he’d done when Dan was around: they finally made sense.

The only way forward, Phil decided, was to ignore it, as he’d been doing already. Of course, it would be far more difficult now that he was aware of his feelings, but he’d spent the last few months getting close to Dan without any difficulties, and this would have to go on as it had been doing before. Dan was still the same person. Phil still liked him in the same way, the only difference was that he had now realised what that way was. But, he thought to himself, there was no reason for anything to change.

He forced himself to turn his attention to planning the video.

After several minutes of thought, Phil had had only one idea. He got up and walked towards Dan’s room with slight trepidation. “Dan?” he called.

Dan was kneeling on the floor, in the midst of unpacking his things. “Feeling better?” he enquired.

“Oh, yeah, thanks,” Phil lied. “I was just thinking about this video we’re doing together. What about if we do a Q&A or something? I could ask people on Twitter to send us questions. Then we could do the flat tour bit together.”

“Sure,” said Dan. “I’ll tweet as well, if you want.”

“Great,” said Phil unconvincingly. “Yeah, thanks.”

On returning to his computer, he opened Twitter.

 **AmazingPhil** _Doing a video with @pianodan this week! Send us your questions_

Shortly after pressing the tweet button, he noticed a tweet from Dan at the top of his timeline.

 **pianodan** _hi kids i’m guest starring in a mystery video with the amazing @amazingphil so ask us your non-musical questions_

Phil closed his laptop, deciding that perhaps unpacking would be preferable after all.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Phil make a video together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> friendly reminder that by this point we are in 2013 … (continued below)

“Hey Dan,” said Phil lightly. 

Dan looked up from his computer and smiled. “Good afternoon.”

“Are you up for filming that video later?”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Dan replied.

“Cool,” said Phil, and sat down at the other end of the settee. “I was thinking we could go through the questions I asked people to send in advance, so we can check we’ve got enough interesting ones.”

“Oh, right,” said Dan. “What, just look through the replies to our tweets?”

“Yep,” Phil confirmed.

They set to it, individually scrolling through Twitter and copying anything that caught their attention into a text file. Naturally, as many of Phil’s subscribers knew little about Dan, and he tended to share less personal information than Phil did, many of the questions were about various aspects of Dan’s life. Phil diligently trawled through, excluding the more invasive or more mundane ones.

Dan’s attention, however, was caught by a small number of more unusual questions. “Some people are asking really weird stuff,” he remarked conversationally.

Phil shrugged. “Oh, you know the internet.”

“I just thought, they might be long-term subscribers of yours,” Dan continued.

Phil glanced at him over the top of his laptop. “What do you mean?”

“Well, your early videos are kind of … strange, aren’t they?”

“Oh—have you watched them?” Phil asked, before he could stop himself.

Dan grinned. “I actually used to watch your stuff years ago. And then a while ago, I ended up looking at some of your old videos, and they’re … different, aren’t they.”

“Yeah,” Phil conceded. He sat up a little straighter. “I was sort of desperate for attention back then. I just used to do crazy stuff to get people to watch my videos.”

“Well, I guess it worked then,” said Dan, still smiling. “Can we use these questions though?”

“Sure, if you want,” said Phil.

“Could we”—Dan hesitated—“perhaps … _exclusively_ use them? I mean, I just think a video full of ‘what’s your shoe size’ would be a bit boring.”

“Did someone ask that?”

“At least three people have asked that.”

They both laughed.

“So, you want to make it a sort of _weird questions_ video?” Phil checked.

“I guess,” said Dan. “We can do all the rest straight, the flat tour and everything. I just think it would be more fun. Weird questions, but not actually pointing that out, so it’s just a bit surreal.”

“OK then,” said Phil. “Let’s find the weirdest questions.”

* * *

Some time later, they were both sitting on Phil’s bed, which he had appointed his customary filming location. 

“I’ll do the introduction bit later,” Phil informed Dan. “Let’s do the questions now, and then the flat tour after that.”

“You’re the boss,” Dan agreed.

“Right, do you want to do your questions first?” Phil suggested.

Dan located the list of questions on his phone, which began as follows:

  1. _What is the lowest sound you can make_
  2. _If you were a professional wrestler what would your name be_
  3. _Would you rather have fingernails instead of nipples or nipples instead of fingernails_



They worked through about six questions from Dan’s list, and then turned to Phil’s, which began thus:

  1. _Where can I hide the body_
  2. _Would you rather have really big eyes or a really tiny mouth_
  3. _When was the last time you had a pillow fight_



Being in one of Phil’s videos, Dan was discovering, apparently involved making an absolute idiot of yourself shrieking and rolling around on Phil’s bed. It was oddly enjoyable, though. Phil insisted on providing answers to the questions that were just as bizarre as the questions themselves, and after a little warming up, Dan found it hard to avoid doing the same. He had never done anything like this for YouTube before, but was having a lot of fun, just messing around with his best friend.

After they had dealt with the last question, Phil—who was lying face-down on the bed—lifted his head and said, “OK. I think we’ve got enough there.”

“Cool,” said Dan.

Phil got up and detached the camera from the tripod. “That all fine for you? What you expected?”

Dan laughed. “I don’t know about what I expected, that was mental. But it was great, actually. Thanks.”

“Oh,” said Phil. “Well … no problem.” Taken aback by the level of Dan’s enthusiasm, he decided to change the subject as quickly as possible. “Shall we do the flat tour part now?”

Dan indicated his assent, and they took the camera around the flat, taking turns to film each other in front of whatever they deemed to be of interest.

“This is my room!” said Dan, once they arrived at his room. “This is my piano,” he went on, dropping a hand onto its keys haphazardly. A discordant cluster of notes sounded, and they both collapsed into laughter.

“Do you want to do that again?” Phil asked, when they had recovered.

Dan sat at the piano with great ceremony, gave the camera a serious look, and played a full E major chord. “Better?” he queried, before it had finished resounding.

Phil extended a upward thumb in front of the camera lens.

They moved on, looking for anything that seemed worth putting on YouTube. Phil took the camera to the living-room window, which looked out over Manchester, and got a shot of the view. “Here is Manchester,” he narrated, unnecessarily.

Dan insisted on getting a close-up of each kitchen appliance. “Here is our toaster,” he intoned, “which makes delightful toast—”

“You haven’t had any toast,” Phil pointed out.

“That may be so,” Dan countered, “but seeing a toaster of such … er … wonderful design, who could doubt that the toast it makes would be the closest thing to, um, perfection in toast form?”

Phil snorted.

“And here,” Dan went on, “is our _wonderful_ washing machine—”

“I’m not putting this in the video,” Phil warned.

Dan feigned sadness. “Why not?”

“Nobody wants an inventory of all our possessions.”

“You know the internet, someone out there will want exactly that.” Dan leaned closer to the camera and wagged a finger at the lens. “I know what you’re up to.”

Phil smiled. Dan had a remarkable natural rapport with the camera, despite never having made a video of this type before.

They moved onto an in-depth explanation of the bathroom.

* * *

Once the flat tour was done, Phil set the camera back on its tripod and to film his introduction to the video. Dan stood against the wall behind the camera, grinning at Phil in a highly distracting way. Phil tried to pretend he wasn’t there. 

“Hi guys!” he said. “So, I have an exciting announcement: I’ve moved!” He paused briefly, and turned to Dan, explaining, “I’ll put in a sound effect there.”

Dan nodded to show his approval, still smiling.

“Yes!” Phil went on. “I now live in a different part of Manchester, which means I’m going to get lost whenever I leave the building. I guess I’ll just never go outside again.” He sighed theatrically. “It’s not all bad news, though, as I am no longer living on my own so I actually have someone to play games with and … generally interact with. So who, you may ask, is my new flatmate?” He turned to Dan. “Dan, do you want to get down there on the floor, and then as I say your name, you can get up and appear onscreen, and then sit here next to me?”

“Oh, right,” said Dan, and obligingly sat at the foot of Phil’s bed.

Phil checked the camera to make sure Dan was out of shot, and continued. “It’s”—he motioned at Dan to stand—“Dan!”

“Hi,” said Dan, with a grin, as he assumed a sitting position on the bed. “How are you doing.”

“Also known as pianodan on YouTube,” Phil went on. “Yes, we are now living together, and I thought, so you guys could get to know Dan, we’d have a little Q&A.”

“I’m sure it will help them get to know me much better,” Dan added, with a wry smile.

“On second thoughts,” said Phil, “you could just go to Dan’s channel, and you’ll probably just learn a lot more about him that way than by watching him answer the weird questions you guys asked.”

“It’s mostly just me playing the piano,” said Dan apologetically. “But that’s basically all I do, so that probably gives an accurate impression of me.”

Phil shrugged in agreement. “But first: on to the questions!” He turned to Dan. “OK, that’s us done. I’ll try and get this edited now and then I can post it tonight.”

“Great,” said Dan. “Do you want my input on the editing?”

“Do you want to _provide_ input?”

“I just thought, as I was in the video. It would be good to see how you edit yours, actually. My editing goes about as far as cutting bits out when I make mistakes, but you have actual effects and things.”

“What, you want to watch me editing? It’s really boring.”

“Just a bit of it, then.”

They decided to work on the Q & A part, Phil taking the lead and showing Dan some of his more unusual editing techniques.

“See, you do a weird face here, so we could zoom in on that,” he said, and then, feeling foolish for having made such a suggestion, quickly added, “if you’re fine with that.”

“Oh no, go ahead,” said Dan, leaning towards the screen, engrossed in the intricacies of Phil’s editing process.

Phil did so, and made further refinements until they had a rough version of the complete video segment, which they watched through.

“Could it be a bit more choppy?” Dan suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s already weird enough,” said Dan, “but if you moved some random bits of footage around between the questions,”—he pointed to the screen—“like that bit where you’re lying on the bed waving your legs around and I’m just staring at the camera, it would be even more ridiculous, you know.”

Phil complied. “This is very old-school Phil,” he remarked as he did so.

“Well, I like old-school Phil,” said Dan.

Don’t you like new-school Phil, Phil wanted to ask, but remained silent.

* * *

A few hours later, after a break for dinner, most of which was spent debating the merits of different Mario Kart characters, Phil uploaded the video, _Phil and Dan answer your questions! + FLAT TOUR!_  

“They’re going to be disappointed that we’re not answering proper questions,” Phil complained, as they watched the upload progress bar fill.

“They _sent_ the questions we answered,” Dan pointed out.

“Some of them did.”

Dan shrugged. “We never said it was going to be a _factual_ video.”

“That’s true,” Phil admitted. The progress bar was full. He hesitated.

“Oh, go on,” said Dan, and prodded him.

Phil clicked _Publish_.

They had no alcohol, so Dan raised his glass of Ribena and nudged it against Phil’s. “Cheers. To our first video together.”

“Cheers,” said Phil, smiling, and closed his laptop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aye it’s not _The_ pinof, the 2009 one would have been incongruous. Questions are from the 2013 pinof so I didn’t think it was worth narrating the whole video being filmed in excruciating detail: it’s on the internet already, just imagine it without the cat whiskers (no great loss imo) and the instructions (anyone up for some discourse about how pinof has gone from mostly questions to mostly instructions?? just me? all I want is academic analysis of dan and phil please). Conveniently enough the stage of intimacy actual D  & P projected on camera in actual 2013 corresponds quite well with the way I believe they’d have been acting at this point in the story, as non-romantic best friends and flatmates of one day … so yeah just literally watch pinof 5 to see segments of this chapter portrayed on video.
> 
> On an unrelated note there are tiny references to Father Ted, the Beatles, and Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared in this chapter, because, to use a term that would have been slightly less outdated in 2013, yolo


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Phil begin to see the fruits of their cohabitation. Dan gives a piano recital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has the biggest your lie in april reference (apart from the actual title of the whole thing haha) so enjoy i guess

Dan and Phil’s video was received well by Phil’s YouTube audience. The insight into Phil’s new living situation was appreciated, and his closeness with Dan made the video seem more natural than his collaborations with other YouTubers, many of whom he barely saw more often than a couple of times a year at conventions. As for Dan, he received a substantial boost in subscribers.

In the past, Dan might have regarded such an event with indifference or even suspicion; now, he appreciated it for its material value. More subscribers meant more views, more views meant more revenue, more revenue meant fewer evening visits to the discount aisle at Asda. His new subscribers were active on his videos too, liking and commenting in impressive quantities, although few of the comments provided any worthwhile musical criticism. But the days when Dan’s comment sections had been mostly focused on helping him improve as a pianist had been over for years.

Dan didn’t think to trawl through the comments on _Phil and Dan answer your questions! + FLAT TOUR!_ , but Phil diligently read them all, as was his custom. As he scrolled through, he noticed a theme emerging.

**gencyget** _omg i ship it_

**laura4762** _they are sO CUTE TOGETHER?!?!_

**XAngry22X** _No but actually guys think about it. We hear next to nothing about this dan person until we SUDDENLY get this video where Phil just happens to have moved into a new flat and they’re like … rolling around on his bed? I’m just saying is all_

**thesuperawkwardone** _guys they’re just friends lol. chill_

**lolio5** _They have separate bedrooms though??_

Phil was well aware of a large segment of YouTube users’ tendency to ship any pair of young men who happened to appear in a video together, but seeing these comments nonetheless worried him. What if these reactions were based on what was actually happening in the video? Something he was doing? Was it so obvious that he had feelings for Dan that he was accidentally making it clear on camera? He rewatched the video a couple of times, concentrating on his own body language, and was relieved not to notice anything that betrayed his thoughts.

A while later, he came to the following comment.

**geegge31** _the way dan looks at phil at 02:35 c:_

Phil scrolled to a couple of seconds before the timestamp and pressed play. Four seconds later, he paused the video and did so again. Then a third time.

There was nothing as revolutionary as anything that might be called a look of love, but there was instead something—the way Dan’s eyes passed over Phil, from his hair, past his face, down towards his chest—the way his nose and mouth twitched in amusement—that conveyed a kind of respect, an appreciation. Dan was totally engrossed in the ludicrous setting of their joint video, entirely given over to the joy of making something bizarre for the internet, with a friend he trusted completely. Phil was heartened to see it, remembering the difficulties he had had in first making friends with Dan. The young man who had first seemed so closed off and ill-at-ease with interacting with other YouTubers on a personal level had become wholly comfortable around him.

And as the months passed in their new flat, this came to be even more true. Dan and Phil gradually became inseparable. Phil, who had lived in shared houses before, had expected that a lot of his and Dan’s lives would be lived separately; but soon enough, they were sharing every dinner, and after a while, even waiting for each other before having breakfast, sitting on the settee to eat it together while watching something mindless on the television. Often, they spent a contented silence together on their respective laptops. The only times they were apart for more than an hour or so, other than Phil’s occasional visits to his parents, were when Dan was practising the piano—which, in fairness, was quite a lot of the time—and when one of them was making a video.

It became natural, when watching films late into the night, to share a blanket, and later, to fall asleep sprawled across each other, and wake gradually as the morning light began to filter in, limbs loosely entangled. It became to normal to walk in and out of each other’s bedrooms without asking, and for whoever was awake and hungry to shake the other into consciousness. Sometimes, when Dan was playing the piano, Phil would wander in and sit on his bed for a minute or so, and Dan would hear the rustling of the duvet and watch Phil’s shadow fall across the keyboard and smile to himself.

Phil managed not to let his feelings for Dan get in the way. They were still there, an undercurrent in his mind, lazily satisfied by how close he was getting to Dan as a friend. Of course, if he thought about it too much, he would regret the fact that he wasn’t getting to know him as a lover. But it was a bearable existence, living out his young adulthood with some kind of platonic soulmate, waking up each morning to a lively conversation about whatever bizarre topic they ended up settling on.

When Dan’s therapist suggested that he give a formal piano recital to a trusted friend, there was one obvious person who came to mind immediately. Phil had of course been able to hear the majority of Dan’s piano practice for the last few months, and indeed had taken to walking in and out of Dan’s room while he was playing; Dan took no offence. But having someone pop in while you were practising was quite different from having to give a polished performance to an attentive audience.

For this reason, Dan chose not to tell Phil in advance about the role he would be playing. Instead, one day after lunch, once the usual good-humoured argument about whose turn it was to wash up had been resolved and the dishes had been set aside to dry, he casually remarked, “Would you have an hour free now?”

“Yes?” said Phil.

“Can I, um, give you a piano recital?”

Phil was surprised. He spent about half his waking hours feeling like he was at a piano recital anyway; not that this tended to give him any cause for complaint, but it seemed odd that Dan needed to ask. “Sure,” he said, trying to convey his genuine enthusiasm.

Dan led Phil into his own bedroom, and on Dan’s instructions, the two of them moved the piano so it was at an awkward angle, half blocking the door, side on towards the bed, where Phil would sit. From this angle, Dan would be able to see him, and in return, Phil would have a better view of Dan’s hands and his facial expression.

“Here’s the programme,” said Dan, and, with a _don’t make fun of me_ look in his eyes, handed Phil a sheet of paper torn from a lined notebook, on which was written in his near-illegible handwriting:

  1. _Couperin: 14 th order from “Pièces de clavecin”_
  2. _Tchaikovsky: Piano sonata no. 2_
  3. _Kreisler: Liebesleid—arr. Rachmaninov_
  4. _holding my thoughts in my heart—arr. howell_



Phil nodded in placid approval, and Dan began.

As he played, he noticed how much more relaxed he felt than usual. Living with Phil had made him accustomed to having someone else around to hear him play, and when it was someone he knew so well, it was far easier even to give this kind of formal recital. He even dared sneak a glimpse of Phil’s face from time to time, and nothing seemed untoward.

As he moved on from the delicate but easy Couperin to the much more technically challenging Tchaikovsky, however, Dan’s confidence began to falter. He made it through the first movement on the back of sheer concentration alone, keeping his eyes fixed on the keys, no longer meeting Phil’s gaze. The second, slower movement gave him a chance to draw back a little and ensure his breathing was steady.

The third movement, faster and more difficult, was a struggle. Dan felt himself slipping, and a few unintrusive wrong notes sounded here and there. He eventually made it, somehow, to its end, his breathing a little faster, and began the fourth and final movement. In some parts it was simpler and technically easier than the third, but it had flourishes that demanded particular focus. Dan continued to work through, the occasional small mistake still slipping under his fingers. But the audience wouldn’t notice— _Phil_ wouldn’t notice, Dan told himself: he didn’t know how the music _should_ sound, beyond having heard Dan practise it for weeks; he wasn’t a musician.

But if I mess up like this, thought Dan, am I really a musician myself? And with that thought, he realised he was somewhere else, not where he should be, not focused on the piano in front of them, and he would inevitably go wrong and show himself up yet again.

Dan found his way, somehow, to the end of the Tchaikovsky, having made so many tiny slips that he would have been certain Phil had noticed something if not for the fact that he had been constantly checking with the corner of his eye to see Phil’s reactions. Phil had sat perfectly still throughout the movement, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Not even a blink when Dan faltered. That told Dan, perhaps illogically, that his mistakes had gone unnoticed.

But now he found himself beginning the Rachmaninov. Dan had hoped that the brief pause between the two pieces would help him settle back into itself, regain a feeling of complete safety, but his anxiousness to get the piece over with had meant he took a slightly shorter break than he had intended. Consequently, there was something still not quite right when he resumed his playing: still a feeling of not quite being there, having control over what his hands were doing and what his brain was doing and what his whole body was doing, and it was too much and he couldn’t keep track of which parts of him were supposed to be doing what, and he was supposed to be giving a recital, for fuck’s sake—

And he stopped mid-run, and his hands hung above the keyboard—

And Phil suddenly shifted from his statuesque position, and leant forward, a hand instinctively stretched forth to give assistance—

And Dan saw Phil move, and in a moment of clarity, he realised: It’s only Phil. It’s only the person I trust the most in the whole world.

And he pressed his hands over his eyes, for a split second, and Phil hung back, knowing to let Dan go on, and Dan slammed his hands onto what he believed to be an approximation of the right chord, and by some miracle it _was_ the right chord—and he went on playing. Not perfectly—shakily—but he was on his way now, the end was in sight, and somehow, he made it there.

Once the Rachmaninov was over, Dan paused. A proper pause this time, enough for him to retreat from whatever was going on inside his head: something that had prevented him from playing the piano in the past, but now seemed almost conquerable. Phil sat on Dan’s bed and watched, waiting patiently for him to play the final piece in the programme.

It was a simple one, Dan’s own arrangement of part of the Final Fantasy VII soundtrack, the same source as his first YouTube upload six years earlier; the same source, too, as the piece he had been playing at the ill-fated wedding reception, the wedding reception with a silver lining, where he had made Phil’s acquaintance for the second time. The same game had been one of the shared interests over which Dan and Phil had eventually bonded. It was a soundtrack that had served as a source for arranging music for years, but had somewhere along the line become associated with Phil, too. Playing it now was, in a sense, a tribute to their friendship, a way of thanking Phil simply for being there.

Dan’s perfect rendition of the piece drew to a close, and he slowly drew his hands back from the keyboard, lifted his foot from the pedal, raised his head to stare at the wall in front of him. His hands rested on the edges of his chair. They were trembling, but from relief.

As he turned to rise, Phil stood too, and they met in the tiny space between the piano and Dan’s bed, and hugged, a slow, warm hug that made Dan feel safe and made Phil realise how enormously privileged he felt to have been the first audience for a proper recital of Dan’s since he had stopped giving them more than three years ago.

“I’m proud of you,” he mumbled into Dan’s shoulder.

Dan deepened his grip on Phil in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “ _holding my thoughts in my heart—arr. howell_ ” was of course composed by Nobuo Uematsu, to whom I apologise for Dan’s shoddy crediting.
> 
> It now turns out that this will be exactly 25 chapters long—a number that’s so nice and round that it almost sounds like it was planned (in reality I ran out of ideas at about chapter 7 … advice that I’ll probably never take but will be the first to give, _plan your fics_ everyone).


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan and Phil take advantage of a business opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is both quite boring and most probably highly unrealistic so I apologise

Still more time passed.

Dan continued to gradually increase the number of performances he gave. Providing background music in bars and at private functions, he would occasionally play something a little more flamboyant, giving reason for the audience to actually take notice of his playing and begin to watch him for a while. Giving lessons, he would sometimes demonstrate how a piece should be played to the pupil, rather than telling them to seek out a professional recording after the lesson. He was making progress, slowly.

The summer came.

One evening, an examination of their financial situation revealed that while Dan was earning more than Phil in total, given his income from gigs and piano teaching, his revenue from YouTube was far lower.

“It shouldn’t _be_ that low, though,” said Phil. “You’ve got nearly as many subscribers as I have, now.” This was true. 

“It’s because I’m not a sellout,” Dan retorted, smirking.

“But seriously,” Phil went on. “Did you ever consider joining a YouTube network? It’s not all bad. And it works out better financially, in the long run.”

Dan grimaced. “Yeah. Someone emailed me actually, ages ago. Did I want to sign up to something, join their team, whatever. It had a silly name. I don’t know.”

“It’s probably not worth it if _they_ go after _you_ ,” Phil agreed. “Fortunately for you, I have connections in the industry.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Have a think, though,” Phil went on. “I’ve got a meeting with my management on Wednesday. I’ll mention you to them, if you want.”

“I’ll think about it. Thanks,” said Dan, noncommittally.

* * *

 Two weeks later, however, Dan found himself sitting at a round table with Phil and two strangers in a room that appeared to be mostly made of glass.

“OK, Dan,” the first stranger, who had introduced herself as Jenna, was saying. “I understand your concerns about sacrificing your integrity. We have other ways of working with YouTubers.”

“It’s not so much my _integrity_ ,” said Dan. “I just don’t see how I could do the whole product placement and YouTuber collaboration thing when all I talk about is music.”

“Well, we’ve worked with music brands before,” Jenna continued. “You could test an instrument, for instance.”

Dan frowned.

“Anyway,” she went on, sensing his discomfort, “we’ve looked at your options, and we’ve got a proposition that would allow you to maintain complete control of your own channel. It involves Phil as well—which is why we asked you to join us, Phil.”

Dan glanced at Phil, who, judging by the look on his face, was as unaware of what was going on as he was.

“We had a chat about you with Phil when he spoke to us last week,” Jenna continued, turning back to Dan, “and he told us you were both interested in video games?”

“Yeah,” Dan confirmed, with a shrug.

 Jenna gestured towards the fourth person in the room. “Brian?” she said.

Brian nodded. “Your joint video on Phil’s channel last year was very well received,” he said, glancing down at a stack of papers in front of him. “Social media reactions indicated a highly favourable response to your dynamic as a pair.”

“Yes,” Jenna interjected. “So our suggestion is that the two of you start a joint gaming channel as part of our network.”

Before any attempt to solicit Dan and Phil’s reactions, Brian took up the thread again. “A number of YouTubers have started very successful gaming channels over the past few months,” he recited. “You both have a good record for audience engagement, and a genuine interest in games, and our research indicates that your audiences would be well-disposed to more videos featuring both of you.”

“We’d have it in our books as a subsidiary of Phil’s channel,” said Jenna. “But you’d be a partner, Dan, so you’d get a fifty per cent share of ownership, and you’d be able to continue running your own channel exactly as you want.” She leant forward. “What do you think?”

“Can we have five minutes to talk about it?” Phil asked timidly.

“Of course,” Jenna replied. “We’ll see you in five minutes.” She smiled humourlessly, rose from her chair, and left the room, followed by Brian.

Once the door was closed behind them, Phil turned to Dan. “What do you think?” he asked.

Dan shrugged. “I wasn’t really expecting that.”

“Me neither,” Phil agreed.

There was a brief silence as both of them considered.

“Makes sense though, doesn’t it?” Phil went on, eventually. “We play games about a third of the time anyway. Might as well put a camera on while we do it.”

“Yeah,” Dan concurred.

Phil looked him in the eye. “Are you worried about selling out?”

Dan thought about it. YouTube was a career for him now, a legitimate way of making money, as it was for so many other people. At some point over the last six years it had morphed from him recording himself playing the piano and shoving it online for a bit of fun, to coming up with ideas, writing scripts, redoing shots over and over again until they were just right, editing videos, requesting Phil’s critical opinion, meticulously scheduling his YouTube uploads, engaging with the right segments of his audience on Twitter. If he was to be concerned about selling out, it was something he had done long ago. He still had the privilege, he realised, of a job where he had total freedom to do what he wanted. And with this new venture, that would continue in almost every respect.

“I think we should go for it,” said Dan slowly. “If that’s what you want.”

“Only if you do,” said Phil immediately.

Dan nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do it.” He reached over, impulsively, and squeezed Phil’s hand. 

* * *

 

“Do you want to get a new game for the channel?” asked Phil as they were walking home through town.

“Oh,” said Dan, who hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe? Can we afford it?”

Buying games was one of the few expensive pleasures that Phil routinely allowed himself. “Seems like a good time to treat ourselves to a new one,” he said.

Dan smiled. “You’re right. Let’s have a look, at least.”

They took a detour to the games shop, and headed to separate shelves, which seemed more efficient.

After a while, Dan joined Phil again, a game case in his hand. “Hey,” he said lightly. “You have Donkey Kong Country Returns, right?”

“Oh, god,” said Phil. “I was obsessed with that when it came out. I actually stayed up all night playing it at least twice. We played it at my old place a couple of times, didn’t we?”

“Oh yeah!” Dan exclaimed. “The one with the really frustrating minecart bits. I think I nearly killed you playing that once.”

“Probably,” said Phil. He looked down at the case in Dan’s hand. “Oh, is that the sequel?”

“Yeah. It’s been out a few months, apparently.” Dan passed the case to Phil, who began reading it carefully.

“I think this could be good,” said Phil, after a moment. “I mean, I’d like to play it anyway. You’re happy making this the first game we play on the new channel?” He lowered the case and looked into Dan’s eyes. “I have a lot of practice on this kind of thing. I’ll probably thrash you.”

Dan snorted. “Bring it on.”

Phil smiled. “You’re honestly fine with this being the first one, though? Not something you’ve played before?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, honestly.” Dan smirked. “Is this what being business partners is like, then? You checking I’m OK with everything?”

Phil smiled again by way of response.

“So romantic, Phil,” Dan joked. “Let’s buy this then, come on,” and he took the case out of Phil’s hand again and headed towards the till.

Phil followed, his smile still in place.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fates change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please supplement your reading of this chapter with the images in [this article](http://www.wow247.co.uk/2016/08/29/10-of-the-best-places-to-watch-the-sunset-in-manchester/).

Dan and Phil’s first video on their new gaming channel was, as Phil’s management had predicted, a success. The evening after it was uploaded to YouTube, Dan sat on the settee in their flat, scrolling through the video’s comments on his phone. He was amazed by the enthusiasm with which their new subscribers—mostly drawn from Phil’s existing fanbase, it seemed—were giving their largely positive opinions. People were pointing out their favourite moments, responding to each other, having whole conversations based on some particular half-second that had caught somebody’s attention for one reason or another.

There were themes, too. One theme in particular, which Phil had come across previously; but it was Dan’s first time experiencing it first-hand. He decided to mention it to Phil, who was at the other end of the same settee on his laptop, facing Dan at an angle, his legs stretched out in front of him. Phil’s feet had found their way onto Dan’s lap, which was common.

“There’s a lot of shipping going on in these comments,” Dan remarked.

(It had been nearly a year since Dan and Phil had moved in together, and Phil had realised that that he might have wanted Dan to be something more than a friend, if the opportunity ever arose. It had been just over a year since the two of them had recovered from their false start, and made friends properly. It had been over two years, now, since they had first met, and still longer than that since Phil had first seen Dan’s videos on YouTube and thought, that’s someone I’d like to get to know.)

(But: it had been nearly a year since Dan and Phil had moved in together, and Phil had had to learn to suppress the ways he thought about Dan, and be content with their extraordinarily close friendship. And with that in mind—)

Phil laughed. “I didn’t realise you knew what shipping was.”

Dan glared at him, not without humour. “I have been on YouTube for six years, you know. Just because I’m not part of the whole _community_ thing.”

His gaze flickered over to the window for a moment. A pinkness was starting to creep into the sky. Perhaps, he thought flippantly, it was embarrassed about something.

“You wouldn’t want to go out with me anyway,” he went on, experimentally.

Phil, feeling like a neon warning sign had just been unexpectedly installed in his brain, almost retracted his feet from the warmth of Dan’s lap, but managed to prevent this undoubtedly incriminating reaction. “Oh, why not?” he replied, as casually as he could.

“Well,” said Dan, setting his phone down beside him, “I’m a bit of a failure really, aren’t I? The whole wanting to be a concert pianist but not being able to—”

“You’re doing better, though,” Phil protested lamely, falling back on a line of argument that he had used several times without much success.

“Yeah, but I still have issues. Do you know,” Dan went on, now looking anywhere but at Phil’s face, “I sometimes just”—he laughed nervously, humourlessly—“feel like the only thing I can do is literally lie on the floor, and I just have to do that, and sometimes I stay there for hours—”

“When?” said Phil, who had had no knowledge of this.

“When you were out the other day, I was lying just there,” said Dan, pointing at a spot in front of the television. “From about ten minutes after you left until I heard my phone go off and it was you saying you were coming up in the lift.”

Phil thought back. He had been out for three hours on that occasion.

“My therapist knows, don’t worry,” said Dan.

“Good,” said Phil uneasily.

“So,” Dan concluded, “I can guarantee you wouldn’t want to go out with me.”

Phil automatically waved a hand dismissively. “None of that stuff’s stopped me being your friend though. There’s no reason why it would be any …” He considered his words. “Obstacle to, um, romantic feelings.”

Dan looked at him, unconvinced.

“Everyone’s got problems,” Phil went on.

“Oh yeah,” said Dan, flatly.

“Not like—mental health issues necessarily, but I mean, people just have _flaws_.”

Dan said nothing.

“Me, for example,” Phil continued. “I’m really … creepy, I guess.”

Dan had not expected to hear that. He frowned in confusion.

“I don’t suppose you’ve forgotten that I pretended I had a piano for nearly three months just to try and make friends with you,” said Phil. He lowered his eyes. “I mean, I don’t know about you, but I think that’s pretty creepy.”

He could feel himself talking unusually freely now, even more freely than he usually spoke with Dan, but allowed himself the liberty of continuing.

“Like, I literally told this massive lie that was so easy to pick apart, just because I was absolutely fixated on the idea of being your friend, I really wanted to get to know you, so I just concocted this absolute nonsense and I stuck at it for ages. And it wasn’t even the best way of making friends with you anyway. I just had this stupid idea and I got obsessed with it.” He paused. “And there’s … other stuff. That I feel guilty about.”

Dan raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Phil shook his head.

“About me?” Dan prompted.

“Yeah,” Phil admitted, but went no further. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and glanced at a spot on the wall.

It was a while before Dan spoke, but he eventually said, with a dry smile, “I guess you’re more messed up than I thought.”

“I … think that’s very probable,” Phil agreed.

“So maybe we’d suit each other after all,” said Dan. He gestured towards his phone. “Romantically.” He smirked, and then said, “You are quite good-looking, after all.”

“So are you,” Phil replied, perhaps a little faster than he intended.

Dan smiled. “I mean it. You’ve got nice … legs.” A tinge of pink had come to his cheeks.

“I mean it too,” Phil protested weakly. “Really.”

“We’re basically in a relationship anyway,” said Dan, more to himself than to Phil. “We spend pretty much all our time together. We have pointless arguments about stupid shit. We’re close. Physically.” He gestured towards Phil’s feet, still lying across his own thigh.

“Do you want me to stop doing that?” said Phil.

Dan frowned. “Why would I want you to stop?”

“Well, like you said, we’re not actually together.”

“Phil, that’s almost the exact _opposite_ of what I said.”

Phil sighed. “There are other components to a relationship, though,” he said.

“Oh,” said Dan, and he reached forward and grabbed Phil’s ankles, swinging Phil’s feet off his lap and lowering them gently to the floor, standing as he did so. Phil watched in confusion as Dan made his way to him, rested a hand on the arm of the settee next to him, lowered his face towards Phil’s.

“Components like this?” Dan asked.

And then all Phil could see was Dan’s eyes, briefly, before they closed, and Phil felt the brief touch of Dan’s lips against his own.

“Shit,” said Phil, once Dan had drawn back.

“Was that an assessment of my kissing?” Dan asked, feigning offence.

Phil mustered no reply, and Dan began to rise from his crouched position, the strangely candid atmosphere that the last few minutes had engendered starting to fade away, as he began to realise that he had just kissed his flatmate apropos of nothing.

And Phil, in time, saw Dan’s expression begin to change, and, to disabuse him of his emerging doubt, rose from his own position, and placed a hand on Dan’s shoulder; and now it was his turn to bring his own mouth towards Dan’s and let it meet his, carrying the message of the confirmation of his feelings.

Dan relaxed as he felt Phil’s lips press against his own, and he let his hands find Phil’s arms, Phil’s shoulders, Phil’s hair, Phil’s waist. Phil. They sighed hot sighs of relief and longing into each other’s mouths.

Eventually, Dan broke away from Phil’s lips and buried his head in the crook of Phil’s neck, smiling into his collarbone. Phil held him in elation and disbelief, stroking Dan’s hair, feeling Dan’s heart beating fast against his own.

Dan raised his head and gazed into Phil’s eyes. Then he glanced towards the window. “Hang on,” he said. “I want to watch the sunset.” And he led Phil across the room by the hand until the two of them were at the window, looking out over Manchester, holding each other close as the sky saw out its transformation from blue to pink to dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it lads! I can’t believe I’ve been writing this for six months and it’s half as long as the thesis I’ve been supposed to be writing instead (oops). If only we could all get PhDs in phanfiction.
> 
> Go raibh míle maith agaibh for reading, & thanks so much to those who commented, especially to those who did so multiple times—it’s been great to know I haven’t been typing into a void and some people have even enjoyed what I’ve been writing now and then.


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